And One for All
by Ophium
Summary: Five 'short' stories —ok, maybe not so short— about bondage. Well, not Bondage exactly, but there's tied up Musketeers. Well, actually, most of the times it's Aramis that ends up in ropes. But, sometimes, he actually enjoys it. Other times? Not so much.
1. For Blood

AN: So, these are chapters 4 and 5 of the story I wrote alongside **Jackfan2** (you can find chapter 1, 2 and 3 on her side, under the name ALL FOR ONE) for the **Musketeers Big Bang Challenge** at Livejournal (if you haven't been there yet, please go check it out. There are some pretty amazing stories in there!). All five stories are independent from one another, with the single common string of being about tied up Musketeers :)))

Also, at AO3, you can find this same story with the added bonus of art for 3 of these stories and a graphic of Aramis' family tree (trust me, it helps!)

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Summary: While the Musketeers knew well the difficulty and terror associated with captivity, and had spent more than their fair share of time in all sorts of restraints and ties, none of those moments compared to the tangled web and bindings of family. Aramis is forcibly reminded of very old wounds upon receipt of a letter from his sister…

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Serge's food was hardly fit to serve at the palace but to four hungry and tired Musketeers, it was a gourmet meal fit for nobility. They'd just returned from a long mission that had kept them away from Paris for over a week, so as they took a seat at the table, the unidentified hot glob of cooked meat that graced their plates was nothing short of heavenly nectar.

"I believe I'll sleep for a month after this," Porthos informed them in between large bites of fresh- baked bread. "In a proper bed!"

Aramis smiled, carefully sipping the sweetened, warm wine in his cup. "I've heard of wild beasts that do the same in the winter months," he pointed out, wiggling his eyebrows. "Big and hairy, same as you."

D'Artagnan's food flew out of his mouth at the marksman's comment. The image of a bear-sized Porthos, hibernating in his quarters, was far too amusing to stop himself from laughing heartily and spraying bits of half-chewed carrots over everyone.

Athos, quietly smiling at his friends' banter, barely blinked as a piece of cheese flew by his head, inches from his nose, as Porthos retaliated against Aramis' quips with food. The younger man, for his part, merely scooped up the projectile from where it fell and popped it into his mouth with an air of triumph.

" _Monsieur_ d' Herblay?"

The name drifted from the front gates, attracting Aramis' attention. He looked up, watching as one of the guards on duty stood talking to a young man. "I don't know anyone here that goes by that name," he went on, scratching at his beard. "You sure you've got the right place?"

The marksman exchanged a grim look with Porthos, before silently rising from their table and walking to the gate. For anyone who knew Aramis, it was easy to see that his movements were heavy and sluggish, lacking their usual grace. And Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan knew him all-too-well.

"Does Aramis know this d'Herblay person?" d'Artagnan inquired, always eager for any additional information he could find about his new friends.

Porthos and Athos, their attention focused on the events taking place a few feet away, did not answer.

They could not hear the exchange between Aramis and the young boy, for the conversation was kept to soft tones, but they could all see the roll of parchment that the new arrival gave the marksman. More importantly, they could see the way color suddenly drained from their friend's face as he unrolled it and started to read.

Porthos was on his feet in seconds, closely followed by Athos and d'Artagnan.

"Oi! What's the meaning of this?" the tall Musketeer barked as he strode towards the gates, determined to punish the person responsible for destroying his friend's good spirits.

The poor man who had delivered the message looked up in fright, recoiling at the odd chance that his life would end there and then.

"Peace, my friend," Aramis whispered. His voice, while steady, lacked strength, the words sounding like stolen breath from his chest. "A letter, nothing more," he explained, re-rolling the parchment before anyone could glimpse it. "Nothing of importance," he added with a forced smile, handing a coin to the young man.

The messenger looked at it, embarrassed. He cleared his throat, taking a strategic step away from Porthos. "She expects an answer, Monsieur," he whispered.

Aramis' eyes hardened to black coal. "Tell her there is none," he simply said, turning and walking away before anyone could stop him.

~§~

"So, his family name is d'Herblay?" the Gascon asked, as the three of them stood idle, watching as their fourth disappeared inside the garrison's walls. "Who do you think the message was from?"

Athos fixed him with a look which the younger man chose to ignore.

"He doesn't talk much about his other family," Porthos confessed, finally answering some of the young man's questions. His words, however, left no doubt that the Musketeers were Aramis' family now. "We should respect that."

D'Artagnan nodded, because he agreed with the sentiment in concept. However, later that night, on his way to his lodgings at the Bonacieux household, fate conspired to set his actions against his early decisions. If he had not chosen to take a different route home, d'Artagnan would never have stumbled across the place. It was not one of their usual places to share a drink.

But here he was and there… sat Aramis.

"Mind if I join you?" d'Artagnan approached.

The older man gazed at him from under the brim of his hat, eyes bleary and unfocused. The empty bottle on the table in front of him was, most certainly, not his first.

"And if I find it in myself to mind, will you turn and leave?" he asked, the words slightly slurred.

"Of course!" d'Artagnan let out in wholehearted agreement, even as he pulled over a rickety chair and sat without waiting for invitation. "I thought the 'drinking alone' and brooding disposition thing was reserved for Athos," he pointed out.

Aramis scoffed, grabbing the bottle to try and squeeze a few more drops onto his cup. "Not alone, am I?"

"But you _are_ in a brooding disposition," d'Artagnan pressed.

The marksman gave up on the bottle, looking around for someone to get him another. "No, you are mistaken," Aramis threw out. "Me? I'm celebrating!"

While his words had an almost euphoric tone, d'Artagnan could see that the sentiment behind them was far from it. In Aramis' eyes, he could see the same loneliness and bereavement he sometimes caught in his own reflection. "And what is the occasion?" he asked quietly.

Aramis stopped, at a loss for words for a moment. It appeared he had been drinking to forget and the wine had done its task perfectly. "I'm celebrating…the fulfillment of a promise," he sputtered, raising his empty glass. "To well-kept promises!"

He lifted his arm and the sudden movement disturbed the precarious balance Aramis had been keeping on his chair, nearly plunging him to the ground.

"I believe you have celebrated enough, my friend," d'Artagnan said, clasping his shoulder. "Allow me to escort you home."

Aramis chuckled as d'Artagnan levered him to his feet, leaning against the young man and draping a clumsy arm across his shoulders. "…home…yes, let us...go there."

The young man paused, looking down at the mop of dark curls, the only thing he could see of his friend's bent head. The way Aramis had said 'home' had sounded so sorrowful, like an ethereal place he could never reach but in dreams.

The marksman's rooms at the garrison, unlike the other senior officers', were on the ground floor, past the stables. D'Artagnan had been there often enough to guide his friend's stumbling steps in the dark and lead him to his bed.

Aramis was snoring even before his body hit the soft surface.

Pausing for a moment, d'Artagnan wondered if he should seek out the others and tell them what had passed, or simply leave the man to his drunken slumbers. He decided to take his leave when his eyes landed upon a familiar parchment, discarded carelessly on the table.

D'Artagnan bit his lower lip, looking around in search of judging eyes, but they were alone. He knew he should not invade Aramis' privacy in such a gross manner, but concern for his friend's well-being bade him to break this particular boundary. What if the letter contained some kind of threat that the marksman had been unwilling to share?

With a silent apology to his senseless companion, d'Artagnan reached for the rolled parchment.

Dear René, it's been far too long since I've last heard from you. I hope that this letter finds you well, even if it finds you only to deliver terrible news.

Papa is dead.

Your family has not forgotten you, dearest brother...please, forget us neither in this time of need and come to pay your respects to the man who, despite it all, loved you very much.

Your loving sister, Margeaux

D'Artagnan dropped the parchment on the table as if the paper had scorched his fingers like fire.

Suddenly, he was no longer at the Musketeers' garrison, listening to his Aramis' gentle snoring. He was cold and wet, crying in the heavy rain, holding the body of his dead father, shot by bandits.

D'Artagnan shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, a fruitless action, as the cold he felt had nothing to do with the temperature surrounding him.

Aramis' father was dead and the older Musketeer seemed determined to ignore the fact, like the loss of a father had little more significance than a horse throwing a shoe.

It was a strategy that was not unfamiliar to him. D'Artagnan had buried his grief for his father for as long as he could, plunging all of his thoughts and feelings into finding the one truly responsible for taking his life, and avenging Alexander's memory.

It had been for naught, for grief was like the sun rising on the horizon; it could not be stopped.

And the Gascon was going to make sure that Aramis did not hide from his.

~§~

The sun felt unusually strong and cruelly vicious in its brightness as Aramis emerged from his room. The previous day had left a noxious aftertaste in his mouth, or perhaps that was just the remnant of all the wine of dubious quality that he had consumed.

His father was dead.

The news should have brought nothing but relief, the man's poor opinion of his son having died with him.

Instead, reading those words had felt like being kicked by a horse, dead-center in the chest, hard enough to rip his heart from between his ribs.

His father was dead.

Aramis felt robbed. Robbed of the chance to battle his father's negative views of the world, robbed of the chance of proving him wrong, robbed of the chance to tell him that his anger had withered away years ago... robbed of his father.

And that only served to anger him further. He should not be mourning so, not for a man who had turned his back on his son the moment he announced that he wished to follow his own path and not join the church.

A cup filled his field of vision, making the marksman recoil so as not to spill its contents.

"Drink," Athos dryly offered. "You look to be in dire need of it."

Aramis sniffed at the dark liquid, finding a pleasant mix of herbs and watered wine. "Thank you," he rasped, taking a sip. "We've got our orders?"

With his eyes half-closed to stop the sun from stabbing into them, Aramis felt his way around the bench as he sat gingerly on the wood surface. It took him a moment to realize that no one answered his question. Blearily, he opened his eyes to gaze around the table. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan were all staring back, each exhibiting an expression that ranged from compassion to sympathy.

They knew.

"Remind me to teach you how to respect another man's privacy," he informed d'Artagnan with a heated look before surrendering to his head's desperate attempts to fall off his shoulders. He crossed his arms on the table and rested his aching skull against them. "I have no wish to speak of the matter," he said firmly, his voice muffled by the curtain of hair that had fallen over his face.

"I did it out of concern," the Gascon defended himself, his voice laced with that same sentiment. "You cannot simply ignore the fact that your father is dea—"

Aramis raised his head, the gesture so sudden and violent that the glass in front of him toppled sideways. "Have I ever told where I got this?" he asked acidly, pointing at the scar on his forehead.

D'Artagnan blinked, at a loss over the sudden change in topic. Finding out the adventures and courageous tales behind each of the Inseparables' scars had become sort of an evening event, the Gascon eager to learn about their pasts, and the more seasoned soldiers taking advantage of those tales to teach him not to make the same mistakes they had. The scar on Aramis' forehead had never been the subject of one of those tales.

"No..." he replied, not sure what Aramis was trying to accomplish.

"I left home very young, barely seventeen," the marksman started, his gaze trapped by a piece of bread on the table. "Too young to have a craft of my own, yet too old to begin an apprenticeship with any sort of master...so I took to soldiering. I liked soldiering," he added with a smile, fondly remembering the first time he had held a musket in his hands. "I was good at it," he confessed shyly, not bothering with false modesty. "Treville asked me to join the Musketeers before the garrison's walls were barely finished...got my commission that very same winter."

Aramis paused, his eyes clouding with some dark memory. His left hand reached for his paldron, fingers caressing the engraving. "The first day I strapped this to my shoulder, I returned home, to show my father what I had accomplished for myself," he went on. "I was so proud of belonging to the King's Musketeers that it never occurred to me that he might feel differently."

From the deep frowns both Porthos and Athos had etched on their faces, it was obvious that they could see very clearly where Aramis' story was heading. D'Artagnan, from the pallor that had taken over his skin, seemed all too eager to not hear the ending of this particular tale.

"He called me a _mercenaire_ , a murderer for money, said my soul was forever lost and there was nothing he or God could do for me," Aramis went on, despite their grim countenances, his voice emotionless, like he was telling someone else's story. "I was too stunned by his reaction to retreat fast enough...he grabbed the first thing within reach and threw it at my face."

D'Artagnan gasped. For someone who had always been loved by his father and had never once seen an act of villainy mar Alexander's honor, to hear of such actions was troublesome.

Aramis chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that seemed to tear his throat apart. "I was lucky he only had a candlestick at hand and not his sword," he added, fingering the scar absently. "Or instead of a dashing scar, I would be minus an eye."

"Aramis, I—" d'Artagnan started, his eyes conspicuously wet, his mouth opening even if no words were coming out. "I understand th—"

"No," Aramis cut him short, rising from the table. "You do not...you cannot."

Porthos and Athos exchange a worried look between them. "Aramis, the pup meant well," the tall Musketeer defended. "Do you know how much I would've given for the chance to have some bad memories of my father?" Porthos let out. It was no secret to any of them that his mother had been abandoned, alone in the world, left to fend for herself and her unborn child. He knew nothing of the man who had sired him, other than the fact that he was probably light-skinned, and of even that he could not be sure. "Don't throw away yer chance, Aramis, even if you go there for nothing more than t' spit on his grave."

"My father," Athos said, his eyes hard as steel. "He was not a kind man, to either his family or those he saw as beneath him," he went on, repulsion lacing every word. "He was all that I saw as wrong with the aristocracy and he made sure that I learned every one of his misconceptions and foul ideas until I could recite by heart the reasons why we were better than the man grooming our horses."

The former Comte shuddered, as if the ice-cold fingers of distant memory had grabbed him by the throat and refused to let go. "The day he died was the first time I lost myself at the bottom of a bottle," he added with a sad smile. "I told myself I was celebrating," he finished, unknowingly echoing Aramis' words of just a few hours before.

The marksman looked at his friends, still seated at the table, all waiting for him to do the right thing.

"He was still your father," d'Artagnan said, not making an effort to hide the tears pooling in his eyes, making them wonder exactly whose father he was thinking about. "Have you not a single good memory of him?"

Aramis paused in the middle of the yard, breathing hard.

He wanted to open his mouth and tell d'Artagnan that he was wrong, that all he had gotten from the man who called himself his father had been contempt and hatred. But he could not.

He had learned how to read and write seated in his father's lap, the smell of his pipe and beard oil forever interlaced with his letters and numbers.

In the late afternoons, after he was done with his chores, Aramis remembered running down the stairs of their home and peering from the door as his father worked the still, the smell of honey and fruit hanging heavily in the air.

The house always smelled of honey.

He remembered when he had fallen from his father's horse, trying to mount a steed that was simply too big for his short legs. His father had carried him to the house, Aramis' broken arm cradled between them, saying not a word to chastise him for his own foolishness.

The marksman let his chin fall to his chest, knowing that d'Artagnan, for all of his pig-headiness and poking, was right.

"Good," Porthos said, rubbing his hands as he got up and came over. "We leave at dawn then!"

Aramis looked up in surprise, barely keeping his balance as the large man wrapped his arm around his shoulders. "We?"

"I shall inform the Captain," Athos announced, already on his way up the stairs.

"You will?" Aramis replied, wondering exactly when he had lost control over his own life and his friends had taken over.

"No, he won't," Treville's voice said from above. His grip around the balcony rail had nothing casual about it, his knuckles white from tension. It was safe to assume that he had listened to their entire conversation. "You have my permission to leave, alone..."

Aramis nodded, slowly. Although his friends' presence had been imposed and no one had actually bothered to ask him if he desired company on such a journey, the truth was it was not a voyage he wished to make on his own. The comforting presence of the others would have been preferred, but the Captain was right, there was no justification for all four of them to leave the garrison just for one funeral.

"Captain, if I ma-" Athos cut in, clearly ready to argue.

"You _may_ let me finish," Treville replied sternly, casting a warning look towards his second-in-command. "As I was saying, you are free to attend your father's funeral," he went on, ignoring the disappointment of Aramis' friends. "Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan will be escorting me on my annual review of the Musketeers stationed outside of Paris. This year, I believe I shall visit the fort at Herblay."

Aramis blinked, certain that he had misunderstood. "The fort, of course," he mumbled, feeling like the entire world had turned upside down and he was the only one who hadn't been informed.

The 'fort' in his hometown was nothing but a lonely tower amidst some old ruins that the children used for climbing, and there were certainly no Musketeers stationed there, as the village was too small and insignificant to merit such an endeavour. But if the Captain wanted to journey there and felt like he needed a full escort of Musketeers to do so, who was Aramis to protest?

~§~

It was a short journey from Paris to Herblay, the village no more than a day's ride. Still, the somberness that accompanied each hour spent on horseback made it seem much further.

Aramis had grown more and more withdrawn the closer they got, barely speaking even when the others tried to pull him into their conversation. After a while, they had simply given up and left him to his melancholy and introspection.

"Do you know his family?" d'Artagnan asked Porthos in a hushed tone, gazing under his unruly fringe of hair towards the marksman, riding a few paces ahead. "Other than his father and sister, that is."

Athos, riding behind the two, pulled his horse closer.

"He has a sister?" Porthos replied, the surprise in his voice making it clear that the fact was news to him. "How come he never mentioned her?"

"I fear," Athos pitched in, eyes filled with sadness, "that there is much that our dear friend has not mentioned to us."

Athos was the one who everyone believed to be mysterious and with a colorful past, mainly because he avoided speaking about it like the Devil avoided the cross. Aramis was more subtle, less prone to find himself cornered by questions, but he was, nonetheless, as protective of his past as the former Comte.

Aramis reined to a stop. "We're here," he announced without a hint of happiness in his voice.

Athos took stock of the place, finding the house up on the hill, surrounded by grapevines, idyllic. It was hard to associate such a beautiful and serene place with Aramis' bad memories.

Then again, he was certain that, for the others, his own home hadn't seemed as oppressive and glum as it had for him. It was all, truly, in the eye of the beholder.

Athos wondered if Aramis was seeing the same scene as them.

The marksman had dismounted, leading his horse as he walked the gravel road leading up to the three buildings sitting close together. The front of the middle structure was covered in green vines, while the one on the left was a simple wooden construction.

In front of the main house, a large tree took center stage, its opulent branches heavy with fruit nearly obscuring the front door.

That was the only reason why none of them saw the woman standing there until they were almost to the house. At a distance, she looked like a slightly-older version of Constance, a fact that gave all of them pause.

"I believe you may have crossed paths with my messenger," she said in greeting, her voice stern and composed. "The one who told me you were not coming."

"My mind was changed," Aramis replied, standing in front of her, almost at attention. "Will you allow us in, Margeuax?" he asked shyly as he looked into his sister's eyes.

The woman gave a sad chuckle, throwing her arms around the Musketeer. "Please...you've never called me Margeaux once in your whole damn life," she chided. "This is your home, René...you do not need my permission or anyone else's to enter," she whispered in his ear.

Even from a distance, Athos could see the way Aramis sagged into his sister's hold, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. "Margie...I've missed you dearly."

"I apologize for the intrusion, Madame," Treville interrupted, politely taking off his hat. "But if you'd be so kind as to point us in the direction of some lodgings for me and my men..."

"Nonsense," she replied, patting Aramis' shoulder as she pulled back. "If you are friends of little René, you are more than welcome at d'Herblay House," she said, her smile fading as she took notice of the number of weapons they each carried. "They are _friends_ , right?" she asked her brother.

Porthos chuckled, mouthing _little René_ to Athos. The former Comte couldn't help but smile. Aramis was never going to live that name down, now.

Aramis, for his part, seemed suddenly called to reality, finally realizing that he had been ignoring the others and had completely failed to introduce his sister to them. "My apologies," he rushed to say. "Gentlemen, allow me to present my sister, Margeuax—"

"Margie," she quickly amended.

"-Margie," Aramis corrected. "Margie, these are the King's Musketeers Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan — and our Captain, Monsieur d'Treville."

Her eyes widened ever-so-slightly at the Captain's mention, but before she could say anything, a young boy no older than eight, dashed around the corner of the house. In pursuit were two girls of about twelve and fourteen, their long hair flying in the breeze.

The three of them nearly collided with d'Artagnan's back, before they could control their motion and come to a jumbled stop at Aramis' feet.

"Children!" Margie said in exasperation, clearly embarrassed. "Must you behave like savages? We have guests!"

The older of the girls looked up coyly, merely acting ashamed when in reality she was too curious to see who the guests were to listen to Margie's words. When her eyes locked with Aramis', her face lit up like a brand new candle in a dark room. "Uncle René!"

It was the only warning the marksman had before the bundle of skirts and long curls threw itself at him, arms closing around his neck and legs clamping around his waist like one of those tentacled beasts from the sea that Athos had read about.

"Amelie?" Aramis replied tentatively, given that he had only the crown of her head to go by. "Is that you?"

"I've missed you so much, Uncle René!" she said, finally releasing her grip and giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Is your head feeling better?" she asked, small fingers tracing a pattern on the scar on his forehead.

Aramis let her go, kissing the top of her head, before turning to the other girl. "And you must be Nadine...God, you two were nothing more than toddlers last I saw you," he marveled, opening his arms when the young girl reached for him as well. "You're both so tall!"

The girls merely chuckled, refusing to let go of him.

"I shall be taller than both of them!" the boy announced proudly, quickly forgetting the girls to poke at Porthos' sword. "That is an enormous sword! Is it for real?"

"And who might you be?" Aramis inquired, ruffling the boy's hair. Unlike the girls' nearly-blond locks, his were closer to Margie's auburn curls.

"René Patrice d'Herblay," the child announced proudly, completely unaware of the reaction his declaration caused. "At your service," he finished, performing a perfect little bow.

Aramis removed his hand as if the touch had burned him. "After...?"

"You and Father, of course," Margie supplied, pulling the boy next to her, mostly to stop him from trying to get at Porthos' sword. "I learned of this little devil's arrival a few weeks after you..." She paused, looking at the men surrounding them and seemingly unsure of how to proceed. "After your altercation with Father. It was my way to bring the two of you together again."

"Father must have truly appreciated that," the marksman pointed out sarcastically.

The smirk on Margie's face was so akin to the one Aramis so often wore, that Athos felt the need to blink to tell the two apart. She might look like Constance, but her expressions were a mirror of what they were well used to seeing on their friend.

"Who's there at the door?" a voice reached them, coming from inside the house. "Close the bloody thing before I catch my death!"

Aramis blinked in surprise, looking beyond the door. "Is that..." he asked, his face splitting into a fond smile. "Is that _Abuelita_?"

His sister nodded, rolling her eyes at their grandmother's manners. Speaking of which... "Oh, my manners," Margie said, one hand flying to her forehead. "Here we are, catching up and your friends are still standing here, freezing on the lawn, instead of inside by the fire," she pointed out, moving aside so they could enter. "Don't worry about the horses; the girls can take them to the stables. Beatrice and the boys should be there, they'll take good care of them."

Athos felt slightly uneasy surrendering his black stallion to such young girls, but soon it became clear that he had no reason to worry. The two girls and little René were as comfortable with the imposing steeds as any other child their age would be around small puppies.

"Pierre, my husband - you remember him, yes? He should be at the vineyards, but you can come inside so your friends can meet the rest of the family," Margie beckoned, leading the five of them into a large room to the right of the main entrance. A large fireplace dominated the room, several chairs, benches and a long table settled in front of the hearth. Beyond the hearth, a second fire could be seen beneath the stove, pots and pans hanging from the walls and a few shelves with dishes and cups.

There was nothing but bread baking in the oven, but the smell was divine.

In the first room, there were three women sitting in a circle, all of them stitching the same quilt. Aramis' family was, it would seem, overtaken by the female kind.

"That's our sister Eloise," Margie pointed to youngest of the women, looking about d'Artagnan's age. "She was in pigtails when you left, no?"

A smile spread across Aramis' lips as he moved to embrace his young half-sister. "You're a young lady now," he noted proudly.

"Bonifacius!" called the oldest of the ladies, her hair tied into a long white braid that fell down the side of her neck and with skin so overwhelmed by wrinkles that it made her look like old parchment. Her words, while spoken in French, carried the heavily-accented tone of her Spanish origins. "Is that you, _mi corazón_?"

Athos and the others looked around looking for Bonifacius, thinking that yet another member of the family had snuck up on them, but there was no one there but Margie. The tender smile and look of exasperation in her eyes made him assume that this was a recurring situation. Bonifacius, whomever he was, was simply not there.

To their utter surprise, Aramis knelt by the old lady's side, throwing his arms around her. " _'Lita_ , you old crone...you haven't changed a bit!"

"Give us a kiss, _guapo_ ," the old woman said with a smile, her lips already extending to Aramis' mouth. The marksman, obviously accustomed to the gesture, grabbed her face and turned her so he could plant a sonorous kiss on her cheek. "René!" she exclaimed, finally recognizing her grandson.

D'Artagnan could not help his gasp of surprise, even as Porthos started laughing.

" _Abuelita_ 's eyes don't work all that well, haven't for a long while," Margie explained in a low tone. "Her late husband, Bonifacius, looked a lot like René when he was a young man, so she's been confusing the two for a while."

"Stop trying to kiss the boy, _maman_!" the woman on her left called, her eyes never lifting from the stitch she was applying. "One of these days he's going to kiss you back and Bonifacious will climb out of his grave to put you in your place," she added, throwing a look at her nephew. "Can't really trust someone the likes of him not to take advantage of an old lady."

"Aunt Selina," Aramis greeted coldly, not bothering to leave his grandmother's side while he spoke. "I hope you're faring well," he offered without emotion. "Your tongue, at least, remains sharp."

The woman, her nearly-black hair tied in a neat bundle at the top of her head, offered a smile that was closer to a sneer. Her eyes fell upon the men standing by the door, measuring and analyzing the four of them in detail. "Are those your bastard brothers or did you decide to bring your own band of miscreants to exact your revenge on this family?"

 _This family_ , Athos noticed with a wince, not _your family_.

"Aunt Selina!" Margie gasped, caught off-guard by the acerbic comments. "Please..."

Selina dismissed her warning, rising from her seat. She was tall, nearly Aramis' height. "That one's a bit too old to be one of hers," she said, pointing to Treville, "but I'm sure the whore managed to convince him that one of her pups squirted from his cock as well. After all, my sister's husband couldn't have been the only fool in the whole of France."

"That will be quite enough," Aramis hissed, low and dangerous. "I am here to pay my respects to the man who sired me, nothing more," he continued, rising to his feet. "You will do well to keep your opinions to yourself and respect my friends until we depart."

Selina merely raised her carefully-groomed eyebrow. "I knew that as soon as Patrice died, you'd come crawling back," she spat, turning her back and exiting with a flourish of her ballooning skirts.

The silence that settled over those who remained was not a pleasant one, filled with resounding echoes of the malicious words.

"Perhaps it would be better if we looked for accommodations in the vill-" Aramis offered, his anger deflating as he seemed to shrink into himself.

"You most certainly will not!" Margie snapped, her anger flaring now that the older woman was no longer around. "Father had no choice but to put Uncle August, her low-life husband," she added in deference to those outside the family, "in charge of the distillery only last year. They've both been absolutely impossible since Papa was killed a-"

"Wha...?" Aramis gasped, his face losing all color. "What did you just say?"

Her slip of the tongue and Aramis' reaction did not go unnoticed. Athos exchanged a look with their youngest, as d'Artagnan had been the only one to read the letter, outside of the marksman himself. From the surprised look on the Gascon's face, it was clear to see that this was news for all.

Margie's hand flew to her mouth, a look of complete horror and sadness overtaking her. "Oh, God!" she whispered between her fingers. "This was not how I wanted to tell you..."

"How did it happen?" Aramis whispered, taking the vacant place by his grandmother's side. The old woman immediately took one of his hands in hers, patting his fingers in a comforting gesture. His younger sister moved closer as well, fresh tears coming to her eyes even as she leaned her head against the marksman' shoulder.

Trapped between two generations of d'Herblays, Aramis looked as if he had never left his father's home.

"We can't prove a thing," Margie said, sinking into a chair nearby. "But we believe Monsieur Gustaf, the owner of the lands surrounding ours, killed poor _Papa_ and then made it look like a riding accident."

"And what makes you think it was not an actual riding accident?" Athos asked.

From the way the whole d'Herblay family stared at him, the former Comte figured he had said something completely outside the realm of possibility.

"My sons have been surrounded by horses their whole lives," Lita supplied. "In this family, we learn to ride before we can walk!"

Athos smiled politely. "My apologies, _Madame_." It did explain a few things, namely Aramis' skill with horses and the childrens' ease around the animals. "So, there is no possible way he could have fallen to his death?"

"It was his horse, Memoir, that alerted us that something was wrong," Margie replied. "The stirrups were intact and...and we-" she stopped, unable to voice the rest.

"...there were finger marks around my son's throat," the old woman finished for her, knobby fingers beckoning her granddaughter to join her, welcoming the distraught woman into the tight circle they had formed around Aramis. "Some bastard murdered my Patrice, and all that August and his wife care about is that no one steals the business from them!"

Margie sighed, rising to her feet and smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skirts. "You must be tired from your ride," she offered, her voice laced with tears. "Come, let's get you all settled so you can rest, maybe wash some of that dust from your faces and chang-"

"Margie," Aramis called, stopping her frantic speech. When she paused and finally looked at him, he spoke quietly. "I wish to see Father."

~§~

The last time Aramis had seen Patrice d'Herblay, the man's face had been red with anger and he had looked twice as large as he really was, standing over his son as Aramis held his bleeding head.

Aramis had expected to feel some rush of sentiment as he gazed upon his dead father, but with his mind assuring him that the senior d'Herblay and the feeble silhouette lying on the bed were not the same person, he felt absolutely nothing.

It was hard to associate that violent image with the small, thin man lying on the bed. In lifeless repose, his father lay with his hands crossed over his chest and a cloth of the finest embroidery covering his face.

That was not his father, Aramis was certain. Even as he carefully removed the cloth from the corpse's face and gazed upon the wax-pale skin and closed, sunken eyes, he could not relate to the dead man. Not when that still face was missing the energy and tenacity that he had always recognized.

Aramis' eyes were drawn to the man's neck. Even under the fine-laced shirt collar, it was easy to see the deep bruises covering his skin.

He had to agree with Margie and the others. It was impossible to believe that such injuries had been caused by any horse, unless it was an odd breed that had come to possess digits.

~§~

D'Artagnan needed only to follow the familiar sounds to find his way to their horses. As he had imagined, the wooden structure near the main house served as the stable and from what he could hear, it was as every bit as busy and filled as the garrison stables.

After opening the doors, he let out a low, appreciative whistle. There were individual stalls on each side of the structure-ten on each side by his count- and each had , at least ten on each side that he could see, and most of them had an animal's head peeking out.

Despite the large number, the place smelled only of clean straw and horse sweat, the latter probably due to their tired mounts.

"Like what you see?"

Whirling in surprise, not used to being caught so off-guard, d'Artagnan found himself looking at a younger, softer version of Selina. "Forgive me, _Madame_ ," he started, slightly bowing. After what he had witnessed between Aramis and his aunt, he was taking no chances. "I was looking fo-"

"For a pleasant time in the arms of a willing woman, perhaps?" she offered with a flutter of her eyelashes, invading his personal space. "My, aren't you a tall, lean piece of sin..." she purred, her hands looping around his weapons' belt and sliding down.

The last woman who had been so forthcoming with him had left him in bed with a bloody dagger and a murdered man in the next room. The Gascon had learned his lesson. He raised his hands to her shoulders, politely pushing her away.

"Get away from her, you pig!" a man's voice blared, quickly followed by the ominous sound of two weapons cocking.

D'Artagnan lifted his hands on instinct, slowly sneaking a look over his shoulder to glimpse his adversary. _Adversaries_ , he swiftly amended inside his head. Two men, one tall and wiry, with grey in his hair and a rotund one, going bald, both holding pistols aimed at him. "Monsieurs, I'm sure this is some sort of mista-"

"The only mistake here was when you and your friends decided to venture onto our lands," the younger man pointed out.

"No," d'Artagnan responded, realizing what the confusion was. These men, after all, had not seen him arrive with Aramis. "We are with Aramis," he explained. "We're part of the same regiment."

"Don't know no 'Aramis'," the older man said, rolling the unfamiliar name over his lips. "Around these parts, we hang thieves and liars alike."

The Gascon mentally kicked himself for his lack of foresight. "René," he rushed to amend. "We know him as Aramis, but to you he is René d'Herblay...we came for his father's burial."

The men exchanged a look. "You mean the bastard?" the older one asked. "I thought he was dead."

D'Artagnan frowned, curbing his anger. It was no wonder that Aramis had no wish to return home, not with relatives that gave no thought to the offensive words they used against him.

" _Papa_! Bernard! Put those away!" the woman demanded, appalled by their actions. "Honestly, _Papa_ , you're worse than _Maman_ ," she added with a huff, turning her back and leaving, clearly not interested in the outcome of the confrontation.

"I merely wish to see to our horses," d'Artagnan pointed out tersely. The men, he noticed, had yet to lower their pistols.

"You lot all staying at the house?" the older man asked, nose curling like he had smelled something foul.

"Until the burial, yes," d'Artagnan explained. It had been an honest and sincere offer from Aramis' sister, and he was not going to renounce it in front of two ill-mannered men who had yet to introduce themselves. "Perhaps you should consider not pointing a weapon at a guest under your roof?" he suggested, hands itching to reach for his own weapon. Staring down the barrel of a pistol had that effect on him.

Reluctantly, the men stowed their weapons away, eyeing him with contempt. "If you're anything like René," the older one spat, making his way out, "Patrice would've shot you himself. You, and that bastard son of his."

~§~

The sun had long set when the others came to join Aramis in his vigil by his father's side. He had sunk into one of the chairs against the wall, fingers carding through his hair in a quiet and compulsive way.

"I suppose," he started, eyes fixed on the floor as the others filtered in, "a few explanations are in order."

"Forget explanations," Porthos replied, pulling the bandana off his head and using it to wipe the sweat from his neck. "I need a bloody map to sort out everybody's names and their relation to you!"

"You owe us nothing," Athos pointed out, more sedately. "Least of all explanations about your family."

"Your aunt, though..." Porthos let out a low whistle. "I wonder if she's related to the Cardinal...the two seem to have quite a few ideas in common."

The comment sent a shiver down Aramis' spine. "She and Olive, my father's wife, were sisters," he explained. "Despite the fact that my father was yet unmarried when I was conceived, Selina always saw me as nothing more than living proof of his betrayal of her sister. She never forgave him for that," he went on, closing his eyes. "And she never forgave me for her sister's death a few years after I came to live here...said my presence broke Olive's heart."

"Nonsense!" Porthos said without pause. "She is just a bitter woman who sees you as an easy target for her poison."

Aramis just shrugged. He had spent his entire childhood being called a bastard and having people look at him sideways wherever they went. The words eventually started to roll off like summer rain when they were spoken by his aunt, but he would not stand for her mistreatment of his brothers and his Captain.

After Olive's death, Selina had made sure he never forgot that, despite being the oldest and the only male offspring of Patrice, he was still a bastard and therefore would never be able to claim the family lands and business as his own.

Now, it seemed, her fears that he had returned to do exactly that was all-too-obvious. And, in doing so, she was ignoring the bigger issue present.

"You believe what they say, about your father?" Treville inquired.

Aramis nodded quietly, unbuttoning his doublet. He felt like he could hardly breathe inside the heavy leather. "You can see for yourselves th-the marks," he pointed out, embarrassed at the stumbled words. "His neck was broken by human hands, not a fall."

"Any idea who might have wanted to see him dead?"

Before Aramis could answer, the door opened, d'Artagnan's angry face looming behind. In his hands were two of the bottles of wine they kept in their saddlebags.

"Don't know about that," he let out, dropping heavily to the floor and sitting cross-legged. "But I can name a few who want to see _you_ dead," he warned. At Aramis' questioning look, he shrugged. "They didn't actually give me their names, but the younger one was Bernard and the older man was thin, head full of grey hair."

"August is – was - my father's brother and, incidentally, Selina's husband. Two sisters marrying two brothers is not uncommon in these parts," Aramis supplied with a shrug at the surprise in the others' eyes. "I know no Bernard...he must've arrived after my time."

"Charming fellows," d'Artagnan assured him. "Threatened to fill me with lead because I was trespassing on _their_ lands," he explained, making it clear how much credit he gave to both their actions and their claims.

"You aunt _does_ have a point," Treville pointed out thoughtfully. "With your father's passing, ownership of the lands and business falls onto his eldest son... you, not your uncle."

Aramis shook his head. "I don't want any of it, never did," he said, grabbing the bottle that d'Artagnan thrust his way and taking a long gulp. "Besides, August _was_ his brother and Patrice never married my mother. I am, in the eyes of law and church, a bastard."

~§~

The place actually reminded him of the place he had been born, in the quietness of southern France, Trois Villes.

His father had owned a small vineyard as well, and the smell was bringing up more memories than what Treville had imagined when he had decided to accompany his men. While Porthos had gone in search of something to eat, and Athos and d'Artagnan were keeping company with Aramis, the Captain had not been able to resist taking a walk through the grape arbors.

"I imagine it's not common practice for a Captain to escort his men when a relative of theirs dies."

Treville, surprised to have been caught off-guard, turned to face Aramis' sister, Margie. She was holding a basket filled with fresh, ripe grapes.

"It will be a long night," she explained with a shrug. "Food helps."

Treville nodded, as he was more than familiar with wakes. When King Louis's father had passed, the wake had lasted a full week. As the former King's trusted man, the Captain had stood nearby, guarding his remains for most of it. "Has Ar— _René_ ever told how the two of us met?" he asked, realizing that some explanation might be in order for his reason to be here.

At the woman's quiet shake of her head, Treville went on. "I was in charge of one of the regiments of His Majesty's troops at the Íle de Ré, one of the bloodiest battles I have ever been a part of," he started, his heart heavy has he remembered the number of good men they had lost that day.

"Was René there?" Margie asked, her face contorted in worry, despite the fact that they both knew the man to be inside the house, alive and safe. "Was he one of your men then?"

"He was, although not under my command," Treville said. "I was wounded, surrounded by three enemies, away from the rest of my men, nothing but cannon blasts surrounding me. Death was certain and all that I had left was to commend my life to God and ask forgiveness for my sins," he went on, closing his eyes. He could see it even now, years past, as clearly as the day it happened. "When the first one fell dead at my feet, seemingly struck down by an invisible force, I was certain that it could only be a miracle, for none of our troops were close enough to aid me. Only when the second fell did I glimpse the silhouette of my rescuer."

"René?" Margie guessed with a smile upon her lips.

Treville contemplated how much to tell her, unwilling to shatter the romantic notion she was certainly picturing of Aramis' daring rescue. The reality had been grimy and bloody, with Aramis collapsing under the strain of his own injuries before Treville could dispatch the third enemy and race to his savior's side. "He stood almost a hundred yards away, and still had managed one of the most accurate shots I had ever seen in my career as a soldier, not only once, but twice," he finally continued, his tone filled with pride. "When the Musketeers' regiment was founded, shortly after that, your brother was one of the first soldiers I sought out."

"So, you came because he once saved your life," Margie surmised, resuming picking grapes.

"You misunderstand my meaning, Madame," Treville politely corrected. He was not there to repay any debt owed to the younger man. "I came because I feel privileged to have the best marksman in all of France and a very fine soldier such as your brother under my command," he pointed out. "To stand by his side at this time is an honor, as it would be for any of his Musketeer brothers."

She nodded in understanding, a sad smile spreading across her tired face. "I just wish Father had listened when René tried to explain that to him."

Treville nodded, remembering all-too-well the young man's dramatic arrival back at the garrison, after the last time he had visited his family, tumbling from his horse and landing senseless in the training yard. Even though he could not say it, that had been the main reason why he had accompanied his Musketeer this time around. "I gather that Monsieur d'Herblay was not the most enthusiastic of souls when it came to soldiering?" he asked politely.

Margie actually chuckled, a melodic sound that seemed to fit her more than the melancholy look they had seen thus far. "That is a kind way to put it," she let out in between laughs. "He thought that René had chosen the life of a soldier just to spite him, to shame him in front of the whole village."

"Why would he think that?"

"René was supposed to be a priest, did you know that?" Margie asked in return, receiving a nod. "Don't know where Father got that idea, not with my brother's passion for women, but still...he tried."

Treville let out an exasperated sigh. How many times had he seen the young man get into trouble because of his excess of 'passion for women'? "And instead of saving them, your brother decided to spend his life sending souls to the Great Beyond."

"And keeping some from joining it as well," Margie reminded with a smile. "Come...we should join the others," she beckoned, lacing her arm around the Captain's elbow. "And perhaps you can grace us with a few more tales of our René's adventures."

~§~

Porthos tiptoed into the kitchen, aware of how much noise the old boards made under his weight.

Only the children and the old lady were asleep, the rest of the family being gathered in the old man's room, keeping vigil for the dead.

The tall Musketeer had no patience for such rites. There was no watching over the dead in the Court of Miracles, other than to make sure nobody robbed the dead of their clothing until some bit of ground to place the bodies in was found. Often, there was none to be had for the poor, only the common graves outside the city walls.

His mother had ended up in one of those.

"You hungry, too?"

The voice was barely a whisper, but in the dead silence of the quiet house, in the middle of the night, it made a booming sound.

Even in the gloom, it was easy to identify the owner as Aramis' grandmother, her petite frame nearly bent at the waist. "I beg your pardon, _Madame_ ," he offered, suddenly feeling like a thief in the night. "Didn't mean to intru—"

" _¡Tonteria!_ Friends of my sweet René aren't intruders! Besides," she said with a wink, "...wakes are dreadful things for the living and do absolutely nothing for the dead, but I am the only one who can say it because I'm old and everyone believes me to be out of my wits," she went on, beckoning for Porthos to join her at the table. " _Queso_?" she asked, offering a large piece of cheese.

Porthos smiled at the old lady's candor. Short as their acquaintance had been, he could already guess that she was a remarkable woman. "Thank you," he accepted with a nod, taking a seat by her side. "Also, I believe it's you we have to thank for all the times Aramis starts mumblin' curses in Spanish," he added with a smile.

The old woman returned his smile, her wrinkled face opening like a curtain. "I have lived in France most of my adult life, but my heart remains Spanish," she confessed. "René was always a quick learner so, I could not help myself...he was such a shy little boy when he arrived here..."

The tall Musketeer couldn't help the sonorous laugh that escaped his lips, shame immediately following as he remembered the wake just two doors away. Still, the idea of a shy Aramis was the funniest thing he had heard in a while. "I'm sorry, _Madame_ , but the word 'shy' in regards to your grandson is not something we hear often..." he explained.

She laughed as well. "Yes, I imagine not," she agreed. "D'Herblay men were always very... passionate."

Porthos shifted in his chair, reaching for more cheese. He was pretty sure the old lady was no longer talking about her grandson, not with that amount of longing in her voice.

"He had learned to keep away from strangers," the woman went on, taking a jug of wine and pouring some for both of them. "His mother had taught him that, for his protection, I believe. It was for the best, given that dreadful place he grew up."

"So..." Porthos started, then bit his lip, not wanting to overstep his boundaries. "Everybody knew about Ara- René's mother's... occupation?"

"That she was a whore?" the old woman said, no trace of malice or judgment in her words.

Porthos nearly choked on the piece of bread in his mouth. "Yeah... that," he confirmed. It had taken a very drunken night for his friend to open up about the first years of his life; it was nothing short of odd to hear it mentioned in such a casual manner.

" _Claro que si_...Patrice told me the whole truth when he brought René home," she replied. "My sons gave me three beautiful granddaughters, but René was the only boy, my only grandson...and I could see so much of my late husband in him..."

"That why you keep confusing the two?" Porthos asked with a smirk.

The woman paused, her ancient face unreadable. "You are a military man, _Monsieur_ ," she went on. "Certainly you have heard of the sack of Antwerp, some 50 years ago? _La Furia Española,_ as it was called at the time," she asked, carefully sipping her wine.

Porthos shuddered. He had heard tales of that event; bloody, horrible tales. More than seven thousand lives lost in a cruel incursion that could only be labeled as a massacre.

"Bonifacius was a Captain in the Spanish army," the old woman revealed, pausing to gauge Porthos' reaction. He imagined that, given the constant bickering between the two nations, she was quite used to people disliking that. "He abandoned the army after being ordered to kill so many innocent souls, wanting nothing more to do with the Spanish King," she confessed, leaning back against her chair, her eyes poised on the Musketeer at her table. "To Spain, he might've been a deserter and traitor, but Bonifacius remained an honored man and a soldier his entire life. It was something that was a part of him, as much as a leg or an arm."

"And you saw the same in Aramis," Porthos concluded, understanding why the woman was telling him such story.

"I did," she confirmed with a nod. "He had the same fire, the same wild, untamable spirit as my late husband...well, some of it he got from his mother too, I'm sure," she added with a wink.

"You were the only one who knew? About his mother?"

"No," ' _Lita_ whispered. "My son could not hide something like that from his wife, he was too honorable for that...and then I imagine Olive told her sister, because soon after it was no longer a secret in this house," she added with a hint of sadness. "It certainly did not make things easier for René."

"I'm sorry to hear about that," Porthos said. There was an intense feeling of protectiveness that rose in him, even though these events had happened years before he had even met Aramis. Still, the thought of a shy little boy, taken from his mother and plunged into a house where not all welcomed him was not an image that set right with him. He put the food aside, his appetite suddenly deserting him.

He had always felt a special connection with the marksman, ever since the first day their paths had crossed at the garrison's training grounds. When Aramis had told him about his similar humble origins, Porthos had figured that was the reason behind their uncanny kinship. Now, he could see that the similarities went much further.

"No need to get all distraught," the old woman admonished as she noticed his reaction. "He was loved and cherished, you know? As best as we could, anyway...everything else, he would just shrug it off and carry on as if it were nothing to him."

Porthos smiled. "Yeah...still does that," he confessed. Not many people were able to see the real Aramis under the mask he had created to protect himself — apparently since a tender age — but Porthos and the others were some of the few privileged enough to see the truly caring and sensitive man underneath. It was both a blessing and a curse.

"What about your family?" the old lady questioned. "I can tell by your reaction that yours was not an easy childhood either. Do they still live?"

Porthos smiled politely. His family was not something that he was fond of discussing, but this sweet old lady had chosen to share a bit of his friend's past with him, trusting him to keep Aramis' heart safe. He could, at least, return the favor. "My mother died when I was a small boy. She was the only family I ever knew...until I found the Musketeers," he confessed, downing his cup.

The feel of soft hands, fragile and yet strong, wrapping around his fingers, took Porthos by surprise. He looked up, finding the woman's eyes shining with understanding and resolve. For a moment, he thought that the mention of his dead mother had made the poor woman think about her dead son, being watched over by the rest of the family and he felt guilty. "I'm sor—"

"I am glad my little René found you," she said, trapping his gaze with her dark eyes. "And that you have found him."

Porthos smiled gently, emotion threatening to turn his eyes as shiny as hers. She was right...all of them, lost souls, had been very lucky to have found each other. "To fortuitous encounters!" he said, raising his glass.

She smiled in return, touching her cup to his. "To the family we collect through life!"

~§~

They held the burial at sunrise, as it was customary in that region.

Aramis could still remember being pulled from his bed in what had felt like the middle of the night, to be present at his grandfather's burial. Bonifacius had died less than a month after his arrival, felled by a weak heart.

At the time, he had been merely a frightened child, scared of the cold gravestones in the misty grounds of the cemetery, clinging to his sister's hands like that contact was the only thing preventing the dead from snatching him away.

When Olive, his father's wife, had passed on a couple of years later, Aramis had not been invited to be present.

He was not invited to carry his father's coffin, either. Bernard, who he had learned was the husband of Selina's daughter, August and two of the stable hands had each grabbed one handle and placed the wooden box on the cart that would carry it to the chapel in the village.

Despite his sister's quiet indignation, Aramis was glad to be excused of such a task. It would be hypocritical of him, not when he had barely planned to attend at all. He followed behind the cart, with the rest of the family and his Musketeers family, his head held high despite the growing feeling of wanting to be anywhere else.

For someone who had grown used to Paris' cathedrals and numerous churches, the village's small chapel felt oppressive and cramped, smaller than the King's private chapel on the palace grounds. And everyone had shown up to pay their respects.

Despite not having a drop of noble blood in their veins, the d'Herblays were one of the most prominent families in the region, known for breeding fine horses and the old man's brandy. The presence of every neighbor and acquaintance of the family's patriarch was expected.

The grounds behind the town's church had not changed much, other than the expanding number of graves.

Over the hills that surrounded Herblay, the sun had already risen, even if its rays had yet to spill over the ridge, washing everything in a pale and feeble light that made everyone look like gaunt spirits.

It suited Aramis' mood.

The priest's voice sounded distant and hollow, speaking of the glory of Heaven's rewards and the resurrection of the dead on Earth, a speech he had already listened to more times than he could count, so that the words had somewhat lost their meaning.

It was the shadows, moving at a distance at the base of the hills that caught his attention, making him tense for reasons he could not define.

"Do you wish to leave?" Athos whispered at his side. "I have yet to taste your family's excellent brandy... I believe now—"

"That tree, behind the grave with the square stone," Aramis whispered back, his eyes never wavering. "And over there, by the third cross on the left," he went on, knowing that he needed no more to make his brothers aware that there was something wrong.

Athos fiddled with the hat in his hands, covertly checking the places the marksman had mentioned. "By the church as well," he added, "and two more by the western fence."

Aramis nodded, quietly elbowing Porthos.

"Yeah...I see 'em," the tall man mumbled under his breath. "Don't suppose they're here to pay their respects?"

It was a whimsical hope that not even Porthos truly believed. Whoever those people were, they were trying to pass unnoticed, quietly —effectively— surrounding the group gathered around the fresh grave.

Aramis tensed, swiftly counting heads and despairing. Despite the fact that he and the others had attended the funeral in their full Musketeer regalia and were, therefore, armed and ready, the rest were not. Most were old men, women and children. They would not stand a chance to protect them all from harm.

"We need to get these people out of here," Treville muttered at his back, his words sending a shiver up Aramis' spine. The Captain, it would seem, was of the same opinion. "Spread out," he hissed.

It was easier said than done. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan moved like shadows, but they could not go very far without attracting attention to themselves. Aramis and the Captain stayed by the d'Herblays, hands poised over their pistols.

A lonely pistol shot echoed across the valley, the surrounding hills making it sound like the blast of ten cannons. "No one moves!"

The barked order allied with the loud, offensive sound of the weapon discharging, had been enough to set most of the young ones crying. Their mothers, too frightened to move, desperately covered the children's mouths, hoping to quiet them.

Aramis looked at the others, noticing that none had managed to go very far. They stood amidst the crowd, unnoticed and ready to strike.

Their attackers, however, were taking no chances. They stood just out of reach, most holding pitchforks, hammers and axes, a few carrying swords. The group, while large, was not composed of the usual mercenaries or hired soldiers that one would expect. If anything, Aramis figured these were local farmers.

A single man carried a brace of pistols, one in his hand, the other, already spent, tucked at his waist. Upon seeing him Margie tensed, her whole body rigid with a constrained urgency to move.

"Who is that?" Aramis whispered, barely moving his lips.

"Gustaf."

The word was nothing more than a snarl, but it conveyed perfectly the hatred his sister felt for the man. The neighbor she believed responsible for their father's death.

"My business is with the d'Herblays and their associates alone," the man – Gustaf - blared. "Everyone else can go. Now!"

The villagers needed no further incentive. It wasn't their battle and, when escape was freely offered, they rushed out of the graveyard to save their lives.

An axe flew through the air, neatly hitting someone's back with a sickening, wet sound. The man, one of the stable workers who had helped carry the coffin, fell without a sound, dead even before his head cracked open against a gravestone.

"Associates means employees as well, you daft idiot," Gustaf pointed out, climbing on top of the tallest grave so his cruel gaze could skim the rest of the gathered people. He seemed almost eager to spot someone else willing to defy his command.

In a matter of seconds, the only ones standing amongst the graves were Aramis' family, the rest of their workers and the Musketeers.

Aramis looked around, searching for a way out, for an option that would not end in a bloodbath.

His younger sister and Lita stood close to each other, arms entwined, seeking comfort, both shaking like leaves. Selina and her husband stood to one side, cold stares daring the attackers to harm them, as if their gaze alone had the power to protect them. Beatrice and Bernard were holding hands, two young boys of similar features, children that Aramis had yet to meet, held closely against them; and beside him, Margie, standing tall and defiant, even as she tried to shield all three of her children with her diminutive body. One of the farm helpers, a tall man with reddish hair, kept looking at them with a troubled expression on his face, making Aramis realize that he was looking at Pierre, his sister's husband.

"Now," Gustaf went on, his eyes falling on the armed Musketeers. "Surrender your weapons and get on your knees, gentlemen, or the number of dead in these grounds will rapidly rise."

"How dare you come here and disrespect my father's burial?" Margie said, anger surpassing her control.

"Weapons, now!" Gustaf hissed, ignoring her heated words, pointing his pistol at her instead. The message was quite clear.

Left with no other choice, Aramis removed his weapons' belt, the others following his lead. Even if they had no pistols that they could see, there were simply too many of Gustaf's men for them to manage to shoot them all before someone was hurt or killed. They stood helplessly, as the men went about collecting their swords and pistols.

"You murdered my father," Margie snarled, no trace of doubt in her words or fear in her eyes.

Gustaf smiled down at her in a condescending way. "Actually, I didn't have the pleasure," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "But I am here to finish the job of ridding these lands of any d'Herblays left," he went on, gazing cruelly at the people at his mercy. "Behave properly and my men will make it swift. Behave poorly and..." A smirk graced his lips as he gazed upon the young girls, jumping down from the grave. "Let's just say that we'll be staying here for a very long time..."

Aramis exchanged a look with Athos. They had to do something, or else none of them was going to leave the graveyard alive. The swordsman directed his gaze towards Gustaf.

The leader was the only one with a loaded pistol. If all of them attacked at the same time, he would only be able to fire once. One of them would die, but the rest would stand a chance to fight their way out, even with the hindrance of having to navigate the tall gravestones. If they were lucky, most of Aramis' family would make it as well. If not, they would at least die fighting.

Athos looked pointedly at d'Artagnan, the young man giving a small nod as he understood easily their only option.

Aramis gave Porthos a sideways glance, the tall man smirking at the prospect of showing these idiots the consequences of cornering the King's Musketeers.

Margie caught his eye, realizing that they were planning something. Her hands, resting by her skirts, moved ever so slightly, reveling what she was hiding between the folds.

The marksman managed to school his features not to react to the pistol peeking from her pocket. He raised his eyes to meet hers, urging her not to use it. While she, unlike them, stood unguarded and free to take aim, Aramis had no idea what her skill with a pistol was. But, even if she was one of the best, it would be a nearly impossible shot.

Gustaf was standing in between the graves, savoring his certain victory as he kept them waiting for the order to be killed. From where they stood, Aramis and Margie could see nothing but the left side of his face. The target was too small and the odds of him turning his head or moving ever so slightly...

Margie, however, had no intention of shooting. With the barest of movements, she slipped the pistol out and pressed it against Aramis' hand.

"Kill them!" Gustaf finally ordered, his smile widening at the prospect. "Leave no one alive!"

There was no time to think, or warn the others of the change of plan. In one swift move, Aramis raised the pistol and, taking the barest moment to aim, fired. The smoke and poor light worked to obscure his sight, making it impossible for him to see if his shot hit its target or not.

Even before the sound had a chance to dissipate, chaos erupted.

Porthos, guarded by two men, each holding a pitchfork, turned briskly, one hand diving for the weapon in one of the men's hands and swiftly pushing the sharp prongs into the other man's chest. Each bore a look of utter surprise, as one found himself fighting to breathe through the blood filling his lungs and the other found himself weaponless, facing a very angry Musketeer. Porthos snarled in the survivor's direction, sending the man running for his life, not turning back.

D'Artagnan dodged the axe flying in his direction as soon as the shot sound. The man standing guard behind him, however, was not as nimble in his reflexes, staggering back in bewilderment as he looked down at the weapon sticking out from his shoulder. The Gascon, in the face of an offered weapon, wasted no time.

With a sickening sucking sound, he pulled the axe free from the man's flesh and charged the other three close to his location. If it hadn't been clear before that these men were not trained soldiers, the fact that one of them dropped his sword at the sight and fled as fast as he could, was more than enough to prove the point. D'Artagnan smiled at the remaining two, a predatory smirk that, along with the vision of the bloody axe in his hands was enough to send them both racing after their companion.

Athos was less lucky. Both the men nearest to him were actually in a disposition to fight and armed with swords and a chain.

In a long-practiced move, the swordsman unclasped his cloak and used the sturdy cloth to evade the attack from the man on his left, twirling him around and grabbing him from behind, just in time to use the poor man as a human shield when his second opponent charged.

Aramis had but exchanged a quick look with Treville, delegating the older man with the responsibility to escort his family away and keepi them safe, before he darted towards the place where Gustaf had been merely a moment before.

He found the man crumpled between two head stones, part of his face missing. Aramis shuddered, not so much due to the violence of the image, but because of how little it made him feel.

Maybe his father had been right about him. He was in the business of death and he was perhaps too good at what he did.

Dispassionately, Aramis picked up the pistol from the dead man's lax fingers, turning around in search of a target. Most of Gustaf's men were running, very few possessing the desire to lay down their lives for the sake of a dead man, not when their hope of payment had most certainly died with him.

He lowered the weapon with a sigh, eyes falling on his father's coffin.

"Aramis!"

"René!"

"Look out!"

The multiple shouts arrived almost at the same time as the pain hit, blunt and all-encompassing, absorbing every other sense or feelings. Distantly, Aramis heard the faint reverberation of a pistol shot, skipping across the valley.

Listlessly, he looked at the pistol in his hand, unfired. His mind, rather than dealing with the stabbing pain that had taken over his entire left side, was busy trying to figure out where the third pistol had come from.

Gustaf had fired one, the second was in Aramis' hands...had they missed a firearm on one of Gustaf's men?

His knees folded, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud, but Aramis barely noticed. He fell, unconsciously turning on his side to protect the source of the agony. His vision dimming at the edges, his gaze landed on his father's casket.

"There, Father," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Now I am home."

~§~

Athos knew that he should have savored their victory so soon. Gustaf was dead, and as soon as his men realized that important fact, most lost their willingness to fight, those who even had it in the first place.

At his feet laid one of the men, leaking blood from his stomach, tears running from his eyes. For a moment, the former Comte wondered how willing those men had been when Gustaf had dragged them into that graveyard to fight his battle.

Over land.

It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that lives were lost over something as unimportant as 'land'.

 _'You are dust, and to dust you shall return.'_

The priest had uttered those words only moments past, ironically foreseeing what was to come. You are dust and to dust you shall return...and nowhere does it say that you own any of it.

Temporary possession, at most, was not worth the bloodshed that people committed for a piece of _dust_.

Athos wiped his brow. The sun, finally peeking over the hills, had been beating down on them for some time, its heat unnoticed in the furnace of battle. He looked around, assuring himself that the others were unscathed.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had busied themselves gathering the remainder of Gustaf's men, those still breathing anyway, and reclaiming their weapons.

The Captain stood by the cemetery gate, trying to keep Aramis' family away from the chaos and not being very successful at it.

One member of the d'Herblays, however, stood alone.

Athos could not recall his name in the midst of so many relatives, but from d'Artagnan's description, he knew him to be Selina's husband. For a moment, the Musketeer assumed that the older man, unaccustomed to such violence, stood frozen, fear preventing him from either moving or realizing that it was over.

He was moving to render assistance when he saw the old man raise a pistol of his own. For a split-second, Athos stood petrified, telling himself that his eyes were deceiving him, that there was some hidden enemy in the man's line of sight that Athos himself could not glimpse.

But the only one in the path of that pistol was Aramis.

"Aramis!" he roared, racing towards the shooter. He would be too late, his burning legs told him. He would not be able to stop him fr-

The pistol blast nearly took his hearing, but Athos did not stop. From the corner of his eye he could see Aramis recoil and fall to his knees, leaving no question that the projectile had hit its target. With a fury born out of helplessness, Athos collided with the older man, sending the spent pistol flying. He grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket, yanking him up. "You bastard! Why?"

For the second time in too-few minutes, Athos found himself looking at a man whose face was washed in tears. Only now, rather than tears of pain, he could see that these were caused by hatred and failure. "This was no business of yours," the man snarled. "You would have done well staying out of it!"

"You murdered Aramis' father," Athos realized all of a sudden, looking into the deranged eyes. In his heart, he knew he was right. "Your own brother... Why?"

The man grinned widely, a show of yellow teeth that made Athos recoil in disgust. His thoughts could not help but turn to his dead brother, Thomas, wondering if, had he lived longer, would there ever have risen a situation that would make him turn a weapon on his own kin.

Sickened at such a display of dishonor and base values, Athos punched the man with every ounce of strength in his arm. The resulting thud and sound of breaking bone was not nearly enough to assuage his anger.

He let the man fall, knowing that he wouldn't regain his senses in the near future, and made his way to the place where he had seen Aramis fall. There was no haste in his steps, and given the choice, he would rather run away than close that distance and find the worst.

"Does he live?" he found himself asking.

He could see nothing of his brother other than his left boot, the rest of him shielded by Porthos, d'Artagnan, Treville, Margie and Aramis' younger sister. The children, Athos could see, had stayed at the gate. Of Selina, he saw no trace, making him vaguely wonder if she was aware of her husband's plans.

Before anyone could reply to his question, Athos had an answer in the form of a pained gasp. He had never been more grateful for the sound.

"Is there a physician in this village?" Treville asked, already taking charge.

Margie looked up, her face pale and wet from tears. There was a smear of blood on her cheek that she seemed completely unaware of. "We have Monsieur Aubert," she volunteered, biting her lip. "He has a barber shop on the main street; we usually go to him when there's a tooth needing pulling or a bone set."

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos over her head. They both knew Aramis' opinion about men who used the same knife to operate and shave beards. Unfortunately, the only one of them who could offer an alternative to the village's surgeon was currently senseless, bleeding into the graveyard dirt.

"Very well," Treville voiced, decidedly as uncomfortable with the option as they felt. "We need to take him there, before he bleeds out."

In the end, the same cart that had carried Aramis' father to the graveyard, carried his son away from it. The irony was not lost on Athos.

~§~

Aramis woke to the feel of thick wool inside his head, like someone had opened up his skull, scooped out his brains and replaced them with an armful of heavy, soggy, cloth.

As soon as he tried to take a deep breath, the wool between his ears wasted no time in reminding him of what had happened and why his left shoulder felt like the feeding ground of hungry, wild dogs. "Who the hell shot me?" he rasped, the words perhaps less coherent and fluid than he had imagined inside his head.

"Tha's your first question?" Porthos muttered, the words tired, even if amused. "No ' _what day is it?_ ' or ' _why do I keep placin' myself in danger like a damn fool?_ '"

Aramis opened his eyes to find himself in his father's room, lying on the bed Patrice had recently exchanged for a hole in the ground. Porthos was sitting by his side, arms crossed over his chest and a nasty bruise decorating his left eye.

"What he means to say," Athos cut in, his voice coming from the opposite side, "is that we're glad to see you finally awake and that it was August who shot you."

"August?" Aramis echoed, certain that his ears were playing a trick on him. "An accident?" he ventured hopefully, refusing to believe that, despite the conflict between them, the man would stoop so low as to shoot a family member in the back.

"A shameful action from a man without honor," Athos supplied, barely-contained anger in his tone. "You need not worry about him; he has been dealt with and will face the consequences of his deeds."

Aramis struggled to sit up on the bed. There had been something in Athos' words that spawned a bitter feeling of unease, one he could not deal with lying on his back, helpless. However, his one working arm proved useless to propel him up and he found himself fumbling against the mattress with a hiss of pain.

Strong hands wrapped themselves around his chest, silently offering help. "Thank you," Aramis whispered, resting against his pillows with a sigh.

Porthos merely grunted, fussing with the blanket covering his friend's lap.

"What happened to your eye?" Aramis found himself asking. He was quite sure that the battle had been over by the time he had been shot and could not recall any of the others having received any sort of injury. "Was it during the fight?"

"No...that was me," Athos confessed, not sounding one bit regretful. "Porthos needed some... _persuasion_ to avoid murder charges," he explained with a mischievous smile. Aramis looked at him, utterly confused. "He found the local... medicine man—"

"Butcher," Porthos amended.

"...holding his knife against your arm with a bucket ready on the floor," Athos went on, throwing a warning look at the tall man. "While I shared the sentiment, I could not allow Porthos to keep beating the poor man...not after he lost his senses..."

Aramis shuddered at the thought, silently thanking his friends. For the life of him, the marksman could not understand the logic behind stealing more blood from someone who had already lost more than his share due to injury. Nine times out of ten, it served only to ensure the wounded's early departure.

"Yeah, I guess that would have been ungentlemanly," Porthos conceded. "Given that he wasn't all that bad at removin' the ball and all..."

"And his stitching was almost good enough to rival Aramis'" Athos added.

The wounded man smiled at his friends' light moods, gingerly poking at the bandages swaddling his left shoulder. While painful, it did not felt inflamed or heated. Despite his poor choice in bleeding his patients, the man had done well.

Suddenly, Aramis realized what had troubled him about Athos' recount of August's actions. He had mention deeds...as in more than one. "What else was August accused of...besides trying to kill me?"

The innocent question had the same effect of a cannon ball at close range, shattering everything in its path. Aramis searched his mind, trying to come up with a reason for such a reaction, but could find none.

D'Artagnan had complained about his encounter with August in the barn, but other than that and a few ill-meant words, his uncle had never come across to him as a man capable of cold-blooded murder.

"He hasn't spoken since he tried to kill you but…." Porthos started, looking everywhere but at his friend and brother. "But Gustaf's men, the ones too injured to run from us, they talked a lot," he snarled, making it clear who had made them talk. "They were partners, the two of them. Gustaf planned to join your father's land to his own, making himself a lord, while August would remain in charge of the business, making himself rich," he explained, disgusted with every word.

"We believe he was responsible for your father's death," Athos said bluntly, earning himself a warning look from Porthos. "When I accused him of such, he hardly seemed surprised or offended by the idea."

The world spun around Aramis, making him grab at the blanket like it was his horse's reins. It did not help.

All of sudden, it was as if the reality of the situation came crashing upon him, now that he could put a face to the man behind his father's death. Suddenly, it was real.

The marksman's breath hitched inside his chest and, with a sense of shame he had never felt in the presence of his brothers, he found himself fighting not to sob like a child.

His father had been murdered by his own brother. He was **dead**.

There would never be a chance to speak with him again, to be in his presence, to look at his face and see color in his cheeks, the flush of life running through his veins...and Aramis could never tell his father that he was right, after all. Like dear Uncle August, he too was a killer. Apparently, it was something that ran in the family.

"Breathe, Aramis."

Porthos' voice rumbled inside his chest, making Aramis realize that his friend was holding him close to his heart. The tears he could feel finally bursting from his eyes had no chance to fall, as they quickly soaked his friend's shirt.

"Told you we should've waited," the tall man muttered, the words directed to the other side of the bed.

"I apologize for the bluntness," Athos said, his hand running calming circles around the marksman's back. "But I believe it is his right to know."

"Yeah, but not after he's been out of his wits for over a day!"

When he felt that his sorrow would no longer embarrass him, Aramis pushed away from his friends' comforting touch, angrily swiping at his eyes as if the tears had been a betrayal.

"I...," Aramis tried to rein in his thoughts. "My apologies for such a display... I—"

The door banged open, attracting the attention of all three to d'Artagnan's entrance. The young man looked at the tableau on the bed and flushed bright red. "So sorry...I hear shouting," he said, stumbling over the words. "I brought food," he sheepishly added, thrusting the tray in his hands in their direction as a peace offering.

"How is everyone else?" Aramis finally asked, breaking the awkward silence. "Anyone hurt? Is _Abuelita_ alright?" he went on, concern darkening his face as he remembered her advanced age and what she and the others had just been through.

"Everyone's safe," d'Artagnan assured him. "Concerned about you, I would say," he added with a smirk, nodding towards the amount of food he had been tasked to carry.

There was fresh-baked bread and butter, carrot cake, cake with raisins, prune cake, fresh fruit and grape jelly.

The d'Herblay women apparently, when worried, cooked. A lot.

Aramis looked at the display, his face contorting in confusion. These people, who he had not seen for nearly ten years and who knew very little about what type of person he was, had just witnessed him shoot a man dead.

It mattered not that the man had turned out to be his father's killer, nor that he was threatening to kill them all. The man's head had been torn apart by Aramis' shot, a gory image even for those used to such things.

For someone as unaccustomed to violence as his sister and the rest of his family, Aramis was well aware what the sight of taking someone's life in such manner, on purpose, looked like. It was harsh and cruel, bloody and vile...and that was the image, he supposed, he now represented to his family.

The image of a killer, as his father had always thought. "When do they wish us to leave?" he asked somberly, swinging his legs aside to get out of the bed.

Athos and Porthos traded a look, with the bigger man going as far as reaching for Aramis' forehead before stopping his feeble attempts and trapping him in place.

"What _are_ you talkin' about?"

Aramis stared at Porthos, a battle of wills that he soon lost, resigning to lean back against his pillows. "I killed a man...I have killed dozens of men in my life, but now that they've seen it, surely they are disgusted at my presence in this house…"

"You certain he doesn't have a fever?" d'Artagnan asked, ignoring Aramis' reasons and turning to Porthos instead.

"No, I do not have a fever!" Aramis exploded. "Have you all taken leave of your wits? Did you not see what I did at that funeral, what that man looked like after my handiwork?" he asked in disgust. "How do you expect these people to bear my presence under their roof after seeing me for what..." He faltered, his voice growing weak under the weight of his grief. "... seeing me for what I am?"

The others were stunned into silence. Aramis could not stand to look at their faces and see the agreement in their expressions, even as, surely, they searched for arguments against his reasoning.

There were none. They were in the business of killing and, despite their vows of honor and service to the King and France, it was still an ugly business that disgusted normal, decent people.

"Good God above! Have your brains completely leaked through that hole in your shoulder?" Margie's voice came from the door, her irate figure quickly following.

Aramis tensed, flinching when the movement disturbed the temporary peace of his throbbing shoulder. The anger he had expected; it was the words he could not understand.

"I—"

"Shut up," she ordered, raising her finger to silence him, as if he were one of her children. "Do you think us withering flowers that will crumble to pieces if they see a little blood?"

She paused, staring at him, which made Aramis realize that she was actually expecting an answer. "No..." he ventured. From the corner of his eye he could see the grins on the faces of at least d'Artagnan and Porthos, enjoying this far too much.

"Damn right we are not!" she said heatedly, closing the distance between them. "And do you not realize what you and your friends did in the graveyard?" Her face flushed with anger.

Aramis stood his ground, mostly because he hadn't much room to escape, in bed and flanked on both sides by his fellow Musketeers. As it was, he was certain that, like Constance, his sister had a habit of slapping stupid men. "We risked your lives and exposed you all to the ugliest kind of violence?" he offered, because truly, there was no pretty colors that he could use to mask the ugly truth.

Margie growled in a very un-ladylike manner, her hands closing into fists. "There it is...the d'Herblay stubbornnes and stupidity," she spat. "You are truly your Father's son. You're just like him, you know? You get something in your head and all of a sudden it becomes the absolute truth, no matter what really happened, no matter it doesn't match reality at all!"

Aramis flinched at the profound hurt hidden beneath her words. There were tears running down her face but he felt unworthy of wiping them away, of offering her comfort.

"Margie..."

"You and your friends saved my children's lives!" she cried out. "You saved my husband, our sister's life, ' _Lita'_ s life, everyone," Margie went on, her anger quickly depleted as she voiced all that could have been lost on that day. "You saved your whole family and yet you assume that we would feel anything other than gratitude for what you did!"

Aramis was stunned into silence. For some reason, his mind had solemnly focused on all the wrong that had been done, completely losing track of the good that had resulted from it.

Margie was right. He was trying to look at things through his father's eyes, forgetting that, at least when it came to soldiering, the man had been utterly wrong.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, lowering his head in contrition. "I have not been myself these past days," he confessed.

The feeling of nimble fingers carding through his hair startled him, making him look up. At some point, the others lad left him alone with his sister and she had taken Porthos' place by the bed.

Margie had inherited their father's eyes, a soft grey that became deeply blue in anger...or deep sadness. They were blue now, wet and gazing at him like he was the one breaking.

"I miss him too," she told him, a sad smile curling her lips. "Despite his shortcomings and mistakes, he was a good man."

Aramis nodded, more out of politeness than agreement. There was a loose thread on the blanket that he could not stop fidgeting with, wanting nothing more than to yank the thing clear.

"He missed you too," Margie went on, ignoring the way Aramis' breath hitched at her words. "I could see it in his eyes, every time I called out for my son, every time he heard your name." Her smile widened and her eyes grew distant, as if she could see his expressions before her now. "It was only his stubbornness that stopped him from making peace with you while he still had the time. Because he knew, René... he knew that you, too, are a good man."

Aramis barely noticed the tears running down his face until his sister reached over to brush them away. He leaned into the touch, giving his feelings freedom in a manner he felt uneasy to allow in the presence of the others. "I wish..." he tried, undecided on what he wished most, for there were so many things that he wanted to see set right. "...I wish he still was here."

"So do I, brother," Margie agreed, holding him closer, her tears joining his. "So do I."

~§~

The Captain left for Paris the following morning, unable to justified his absence any longer, now that the Herblay 'fort' had been visited and the troops inspected. With him, he took the prisoner August and a Musketeer escort, to make sure that the murderer was presented before the magistrate. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that August d'Herblay would be facing the noose before week's end.

Treville left with express orders for Aramis to not even think about getting on a horse before a week had passed, a measure that everyone, including Aramis, was more than in agreement with.

While the marksman disliked the idea of not being able to ride, he was enjoying reconnecting with his blood family, while enjoying the company of his current one. Despite the reasons that had led him here and the tragedy that had almost occurred, he was happy to be amongst all his loved ones.

Unlike all the other times when he had been away from Paris and boredom had settled in quickly, here he felt at peace. Content.

"Will you teach me how to shoot, Uncle René?"

Aramis, who had been basking in the sun like a lazy cat - Porthos' words, not his - opened his eyes and looked down into the eager face of his nephew. While little René seemed to have been nominated as an ambassador-of-sorts to seek his permission, the marksman could see the rest of the children, his two nieces and two young second-cousins, waiting just as eagerly for his consent as a teacher.

"And has your mother agreed to such a dangerous endeavor?" he asked solemnly, easily guessing that no, Margie had no idea what her children were up to.

René-Patrice paused for barely a moment, before nodding emphatically.

Aramis curbed his smile at the boy's innocence. "To lie is a sin," he reminded. "Are you certain your mother has agreed to this?"

The boy's resolved crumbled at the mention of incurring God's wrath, as well as his mother's, when she discovered his lie. "But I want to learn how to shoot like you! How else am I going to be a hero when I grow up?"

Aramis' smile faded, his father's voice coming back to haunt him. The d'Herblays were not killers, they were creators, breeders of beautiful animals.

And yet here it was, the next generation of his family, wanting nothing more than a life of adventure and thirsty to learn their way around violence and weapons.

"Being a hero is not about being able to hit impossible targets," Aramis stated, hoping to correct the boy's wrongful view of the world. "It's about making the right choices and looking after the ones you love, making sure that they're happy."

"Like that time you pretended to shoot a bad man, so he would tell where the other bad men were and d'Artagnan could avenge his father?" Amelie asked, the rest of the children having decided to come closer to aid the little boy.

Aramis smirked at the question. He was glad to see Luc and David, August's grandsons, amongst the group, their parents having claimed no part in the deeds of the older man and having decided to stay, despite the circumstances. "Porthos talks too much," he replied, certain that the big man had not wasted his chance to regale Aramis' family with some of their adventures. The children, certainly supposed to be in bed at the late time those tales had been shared, had most obviously been eavesdropping. "Yes, like that," he agreed. "You can also be a hero by being exemplary in your conduct, by upholding the law and honor in all matters.

"What about making others happy?" Luc, the youngest son of Beatrice and Bernard asked shyly. The poor boy had seen his grandfather being carried away by soldiers not two days before and of his grandmother there was no news. Aramis imagined that his view of the world had been quite shaken by the knowledge that the people you love can also be bad persons.

"That..." Aramis announced, a wide smile spreading across his lips. "That I can teach you. Follow me," he added, carefully getting to his feet and walking to a small lodging at the back of the main house.

He had not entered his father's distillery since he had left home in search of Isabella. And yet, it all looked the same.

The ceiling felt perhaps a bit shorter, or maybe he was taller now than he'd been then, and the door seemed narrower, but the smell, the cold feeling of the copper container and tubes under his fingertips, those were all the same.

"Grandfather's distillery?" René-Patrice asked, face filled with confusion. "How does that make others happy?"

Aramis turned, looking at all the bottles that had gathered upon the shelves over the years. "Because this is where the d'Herblays create something that makes people very happy," he announced with a smile. "Or at least, a way to forget their sorrows for long enough to experience happiness."

"Oi! I know the answer to this one," Porthos offered cheekily from the steps, clearly having followed them. Behind him stood Athos and d'Artagnan.

They exchanged a look amongst each other before looking at a smiling Aramis.

"Brandy!" they said as one, breaking into laughter.

The children, having tasted the beverage on rare occasions and having found it foul, were left very confused.

~§~

Athos stood patiently, catching a word here and there as Aramis talked with his grandmother, the two of them whispering quietly in Spanish. It sounded like she thought him to be Bonifacius again, but this time, Aramis did nothing to try and correct her, merely holding her close and kissing her forehead gently as they parted.

Family ties were the hardest to break, especially when they had been re-forged so recently.

The others were waiting outside to say their own goodbyes, a long line of d'Herblays that had spent an entire week cajoling and trying to keep René with them.

And René had truly seemed to belong there, caring for and training the horses, teaching the children how to work the still and make the sweetest honey-brandy, tending to the grounds and vineyards. It was a peaceful life that had appealed even to men raised in the capital, like himself and Porthos and one that d'Artagnan had embraced as if he had never left his own farm.

They could all be happy there, one day.

For now, though, France still needed Aramis more than it needed René, and the rest of the Musketeers were more than happy to keep him safe until the time came for him to return to his roots.


	2. For Liberty

Summary: A prison without bars, a group of thieves with the upper hand, far too much rope and a bawdy sense of humor, leave the Inseparables more inseparable than they ever have been.

* * *

Athos sighed. His breath kicked up a tuft of dark curls belonging to Aramis, a sharp reminder of the ridiculous natures of their present circumstance.

The marksman, vaguely clothed and unconscious, hung between Athos and Porthos, his feet barely touching the ground, arms stretched above where his wrists were secured to a hook in a lone beam in the ceiling of their strange little prison cell. Another pass of the rope had Athos grunting as he was shoved even tighter against Aramis' back, only the solid wall of Porthos, who stood facing him on the other side of Aramis, stopped his movement. A mass of unruly hair lay to one side, affording Athos a direct, if not unnerving, line of sight to Porthos, who stared back at Athos expectantly, ready and waiting for one look, one nod. Any signal at all, and he would follow Athos' lead wherever it took them.

Leading, however, was the furthest thing from Athos' mind. Instead, he was solemnly intent on staring daggers at their captors as they scurried about, adding finishing touches and taking great pains in securing them in their new prison. Each of them garnered his most withering gaze and promise of a painful death but must especially the one who'd taken a shine to his shirt earlier and decided to relieve him of it.

One of the thieves finished tightening the ropes around Porthos' wrists, his high-pitched laughter too hard to be ignored. Another moved in to take the length that remained, of which there was a great deal, and began circling it around the three bound Musketeers. Athos lost count how many times he circled them, but the ropes were getting tighter at each pass, effectively shoving them closer together.

"Sorry, gents," the group's apparent leader said rather apologetically. He rose up on his toes to lean over Porthos' shoulder and talk close to his ear and make eye contact with Athos, his ridicule evident. "No door on the cell so we has to get… creative."

Porthos turned to glare over his shoulder at the nearly toothless leader.

Despite the size discrepancies, the thief and his cohorts had seen fit to divest the Musketeers, not only their gear and horses, but of a great number of personal items, one of those being Porthos' doublet. Slight in size, the thief who'd claimed it, gave a toothless smile and wore it proudly. The sleeves hung long past his hands and the shoulder seams nearly reached his elbows, but that did not deter the toothless loon at all. Proud of his achievement, Toothless strutted and preening about in his new apparel, if for no other reason than to irritate the larger Musketeer some more.

At the sight of his beloved garment, Porthos snarled and dug his feet in, as if to do the thief harm. In the end, the threat proved empty, serving merely to make Toothless and his men laugh harder.

The ownership of the garment was one thing, the helplessness to stop the thief from absconding with it, was quite another. Athos almost pitied the man for neither would bode well for the thief once Porthos got his hands on him.

The men around them peeled with mirth. "They just don't make prison cells like they used to…" a mousy looking fellow sniggered, the rest adding to the cacophony of embarrassment. Mouse looked quite the sight in Aramis' doublet. A ridiculous sight, that was, as the long coat nearly dragged across the dirt, for the idiot was considerably shorter than Aramis. But that didn't stop him either.

Soon, but not soon enough, the Musketeers were alone, left to their awkward predicament. They were, quite literally, trussed up together in a dank, empty cellar of some building out in the middle of nowhere.

"I realize you were angry," Athos began. "But in the future, remember, every move you make, I make as well."

"Sorry. It's just that… seeing that toothless prick wearing my jacket and that rat faced shit wearing Aramis' pants..."

"And my shirt, yes, I know. I am aware. I was there, if you recall."

"Right…" Porthos gave an attempted shrug that swung Aramis' body slightly. "Well, now what do we do?"

"Give me a moment to think…"

Athos stood stiffly, trying to put even the smallest distance he could between himself and Aramis' back. In a nice cozy hug, he'd been made to circle his arms around the marksman's waist where they were tied, trapping his hands between Aramis and Porthos. Having the benefit of being caught last and possessing the longest arm span, Porthos was only slightly better off. He stood face to face with Aramis, his arms encircling both his friends, and tied behind Athos' back.

Porthos sighed. "I'm going to kill them when we get out of here."

Athos echoed his sigh. "Yes, making actually _getting out of here_ a rather crucial part, no?"

"Right..." Porthos agreed, his voice flush with determination. "So, how we' doin' this?"

Athos arched one fine brow, but the expression had no effect on Porthos so he shrugged. "I am open to suggestions."

While Porthos screwed his mouth as if to think on the matter, the swordsman began looking around, finding it necessary to lean back to keep from brushing his nose against Aramis' hair in order to finish his surveillance of the dark cell. The marksman had been left the worse by the thieves' sticky hands, in addition to the clubbing to his skull, he had been robbed of his boots and his breeches as well. Apparently, they were just the right size for one of the fellows that had captured them. "And I would much prefer we do so before d'Artagnan finds us."

From his position, Porthos eyed Aramis, where his arms were stretched high. "Bastards," he muttered angrily. "That's gotta be hell on his arms."

Athos eyed him as well. "Especially the one that is bleeding. I am certain one of them cut his shoulder blade before we were overtaken."

"We should help him. Get some of that weight off his shoulders."

Athos brow arched as he looked at Porthos. "Another lovely thought," he pointed out sarcastically. "We can scarce help ourselves, what makes you think we can help him now?"

Porthos' brow furrowed. He studied the hook where the rope holding Aramis was looped through, before stepping in even closer, pressing himself against their unmoving friend. The end result made Aramis' body press even harder against Athos, who glanced up in surprised annoyance.

"What are you doing?"

Porthos tossed a quizzical look at the swordsman. "Move in close, bend at the knees and when I give the word, we press him in between us and lift him as much as we can."

"You can't be ser—" Athos 'oofed' as Aramis body was once more pressed toward him, the larger Musketeer crouching, waiting for him to comply. "Very well…"

Athos pressed in close and followed suit. Between the two of them, they had Aramis sandwiched tightly. They straightened their knees, lifting him slightly. The marksman's arms went from straight and locked to looser and considerably less strained.

"And just how long do you think we can keep him suspended between us?" Athos gritted, trying to keep his feet braced. "Our legs will surely fatigue just from standing, let alone supporting him between us."

Before Porthos could answer a mournful groan filled the room and Aramis shifted between them.

Porthos' brow furrowed. "I think he's either enjoying this a bit too much… or he's coming around."

Athos rolled his eyes, unwilling to think of the state of nearly undress he and their friend were in. "Must you say it like that?"

Porthos smirked, realizing what he had just said. "What? That he's coming… around?"

"Yes! No... The other—oh, never mind," Athos lamented, before shifting his head to somewhere just above their friend's rear. God, how humiliating. He'd done something terrible to deserve this, certainly. If he could only figure out what that had been, he'd have to atone for it, whichever way that sort of thing worked, anyway. Maybe Aramis could show him…

"Wh-what… where…" Aramis mumbled, twisting between them.

"I cannot hold him up if he continues wiggling about..." Athos huffed.

"Aramis," Porthos looked up at his friend, trying to capture his unfocused gaze with his eyes alone. "Hey, it's me. You're safe."

"P'rths…?" The injured man's body stopped twisting abruptly as he froze in place. "Wh-why are you hugging me? Where are my breeches?" he squeaked rather unmanly.

"I'm not huggi— well," the tall man stopped, analyzing their current predicament. "I am," he concluded. "Athos is here too."

"Must you implicate me in this?" Athos growled at Porthos before answering. "Yes. Sadly, I am here as well. Hugging you, it would seem."

"Why are you both…" Aramis' asked, trying to worm his way down. He stopped short as the rope tensed and put pressure on his wrists. "...down there?"

"Because our captors have a sick, twisted sense of humor?"

Porthos thought it over a moment, as if to supply a better answer before he shrugged. "That about sums it up, yea."

"D'Artagnan?"

"Got away," Athos supplied, a moment later rolling his eyes. "Lucky him…"

"Yeah." Porthos continued. "I suspect he is gathering a regiment at the garrison to rescue us, even as we speak."

Aramis went very still, taking stock of his attire and the position they were in. "A res... rescue?"

"Yeah, an encouraging thought, at least."

Aramis turned his head and tried to catch Athos' gaze, his eyes every bit as horrified by the prospect as Athos felt.

"Indeed," Athos offered as he returned the sentiment, arching one brow at the marksman. "I'm encouraged. How about you?"

Aramis snapped his head back around and looked up at the hook where his hands were bound. "We should save them the bother." He lurched upward in an attempt to get his hands up and over the hook. "I just need to get enough leverage to…" The first attempt failed but determined, he tried again. "Once I'm loose, I'll c-come down and we'll be out of here before rescue can arrive."

"Bloody Christ! Aramis," Porthos huffed trying to keep his hold on his friend. Athos struggling to do the same on the other side. "Mate, we can't hold you if you don't stay stil—"

Aramis lurched once more and it was all Porthos could do to lock his knees and keep his balance. In the end, it was a lost effort. The tight circle they'd made loosened and lost its hold. Aramis slipped back down until he was once more wedged between them, his nose nearly brushing against Porthos'.

Eyes wide with alarm at the invasion of the other man's personal space, Aramis jerked his head back. It was only Athos' fast reflexes that saved him from a collision that surely would have given him a bloodied nose. In the end, he still got a mouthful of the mass of black curls that cascaded down the marksman's head and fell just below his neck.

Spitting petulantly, the swordsman scowled at the dark mess, a vicious look that went completely wasted since no one was able to see it. Taking a deep breath to chastise his friend, he stopped and gave it a second tentative, deliberate whiff.

"Your hair," Athos sniffed again, only deeper this time. "Is that…melon?" Intrigued beyond sense, he buried his nose in the dark locks and inhaled fully, missing the way Aramis shivered before pulling away. "And apples. Your hair smells of melon and apples, with just a hint of... brandy."

Aramis huffed. "Well of course it does. Save for the brandy—" he turned stiffly to one side, "—that's your own breath, I expect. As for the rest, there's this wonderful lady in the market who grinds fruit into a soap, just for me…"

Porthos and Athos smirked.

What?" Aramis looked from the larger man before twisting further to look at Athos out of one corner of his eye. "Doesn't everyone?"

A loud warbling groan echoed off the cell walls. Aramis looked quickly at Porthos, and Athos leaned to one side to do the same. "Great," Porthos grumbled. "Now look what you've done. All that talk of apples and melons… you've made me hungry!"

Athos rolled his eyes. "I mentioned brandy too, but you don't see me craving… oh, wait," he thought a moment before shaking his head. "Never mind." The former Comte sighed, deflated. "What I wouldn't give for a bottle of brandy about now. Then I could at least blame this whole debacle on an addled mind."

"Blaming those highwaymen is good enough for me." Porthos growled, eyeing the dried blood on Aramis' face.

"That makes precisely one of us." Aramis menaced. "I want my boots back…" he mumbled. "And my clothes…"

"At least they stopped shy of taking your small clothes," Porthos countered, always one to look on the bright side. Even if there was none. "In this cold, you might've shriveled into lady parts," he couldn't help but add with a laugh.

"Gentlemen," Athos interrupted. "Need I remind you of the impending arrival of Musketeers—our _brothers_ —who should be here to rescue us at any moment?"

There was a none-too-subtle threat in Athos' words that brought Aramis and Porthos back to the issue at hand. All talk of brandy, fruit and lady parts fled their list of immediate concerns in face of the thought of their brothers finding them in such a predicament. Some of the others had, for quite sometime now, taken to calling the three of them 'The Inseparables'. If -God forbid- they were to be seen in their current circumstances, the irony would be hard to live down.

"Alright," Aramis winced, glancing up at his arms, even as he managed to slide further down. "We need to—" he choked off the words and stared straight ahead at Porthos. Mere inches separated them and Athos could feel the marksman tense, seemingly reluctant to move, let alone draw breath.

Athos leaned to the right to ascertain the matter and knew the problem immediately. "Porthos?" he called quietly.

"Hmm...?" the taller man said, eyes crossing as he stared down at Aramis' face.

"Over here," Athos called him to the side.

Porthos tilted to the left. "What?"

"In as much as it is within your power, a little breathing room...? If you please?"

Porthos looked innocently at Aramis, saw him swallow hard. "Do I have foul breath or something?" he asked, sounding more than a little offended. As Aramis' chest pressed persistently against his own, understanding dawned. "Oh!" Actual breathing room. His eyes darted around, anywhere but to Aramis. "Uh. Sorry 'bout that…"

Aramis exhaled in relief. "Where was I?"

"Tied to your best friends, in the middle of a dank prison without bars, about to be discovered by your comrades at arms and mercilessly teased for the remainder of your days."

"Yes. That about covers it..." Aramis shook his head and Athos leaned back as far as he could, to avoid being whipped about the face. "Sorry…arms hurt. Hard to think."

"I'm certain," Athos responded dryly. "Could you also make it hard to toss your head about? I nearly lost an eye at least twice so far and that fruity scent only gets stronger when you move about." A lock of the marksman's hair chose that moment to curl out, straight into his nose. _Wonderful_ , Athos thought, contorting his mouth as if that would help.

It didn't. Nor did the wet sneeze that followed.

"Oy! Hate it when that happens," Porthos said in all seriousness, clearly following the disturbing events happening on Athos' face. "Nose itches, don't it? Rub it into his shoulder, that should take care of it."

"No—" Aramis protested. "Do not—"

Unable to stand it any longer, Athos did precisely that. He darted his head down and crushed the offensive tickle in the surface of Aramis linen shirt. He groaned out loud as relief flooded his head, a feeling akin to drunkenness accompanying it. Almost. Well, not even close to almost. More like… good enough.

"Feels better, right? Told you that'd do it..." Porthos nodded.

"I've changed my mind," Aramis sagged. "The idea of being caught like this is pretty mortifying, but now I'm not so sure this here, right now, isn't worse." He glared at no one in particular. "Debased to the level of a simple handkerchief…"

"Just think," Athos put in, leaning over Aramis' shoulder to speak directly into his ear, after he blew some of those ridiculously massive curls out of his way—the man really ought to keep his hair trimmed. Possibly shaved close... "Months of taunts and whistles, offers to cuddle and shoulders to cry upon, accused of taking the concept of Inseparable too far… being compared to low hanging fruit..."

Aramis eyes widened in alarm. "On second thought... we need to get out of here, tout suite! Athos," he turned his head to speak vaguely in his direction, "see if your bindings are at all lose."

The swordsman's hands wiggled between Aramis and Porthos, causing the larger man to jerk back, trying to stifle a laugh. Aramis looked at him askance. Athos stopped and tilted to one side to see what the matter was this time.

"What are you doing?" Aramis asked, looking skeptically at his friend.

"Nothing. I—" Porthos swallowed what he wanted to say. "Sorry..." the larger man murmured. "Just keep going."

Athos resumed his shifting, only to stop short as Porthos burst out laughing.

"Porthos!"

"What?" he shouted back. "I'm ticklish!" He waited a moment, steeling himself for their taunting and when none came, braced his feet. "Alright, try again. I promise I'll not move." He threw up a steely gaze, staring right into Aramis' eyes and held absolutely still. Aramis did likewise, failing to find any sort of humor in their current situation.

Athos rolled his eyes. "Don't bother. There is no give in these bindings." He tilted his head at the larger man. "How about you, Porthos?"

"You think I didn't try that already?" He shook his head. "They ain't coming apart."

"No need to get testy," Aramis admonished.

"Told you I'm hungry. You know how I get."

"Oh, right." Aramis twisted towards Athos. "He turns into a bear when he's hungry," he whispered, even though Porthos stood, quite literally, glued to him.

"I _can_ hear you, you know," Porthos commented.

Athos felt as if he was slowly losing his mind dealing with those two. "Yes, well, at this point, a bear would be of more use, given that one could chew through these ropes and get us out of here before we are discovered by our friends!"

"He gets testy when he's sober," Porthos grumbled. Aramis nodded in agreement.

Athos sighed.

"Fine…" Aramis began again. "What if..." he tilted his head back to look up and Athos yet again narrowly missed being head-butted.

"Aramis!" Athos shouted in frustration.

"Sorry, sorry," Aramis stilled, looking straight ahead. Porthos slowly tilted to one side for breathing space. "What if I go up, like before."

"As I recall," Athos began, "that did not work so well."

"Yes, but this time, I climb."

"How so?"

"I wrap my hands around the rope and pull up, just enough to get my foot up on both Porthos' knee and yours, which will offer the perfect foothold for me to reach Porthos' shoulders and, hopefully, that blasted hook. Brilliant, no?"

"Can you do that? Climb up, I mean?" Athos leaned back and looked where Aramis hands were bound at the wrist. The skin looked red and angry, his fingers swollen. "You've been hanging there an awful long time and you've lost some blood."

"Besides," Porthos joined in. "What about your arm?"

"Yes," Aramis winced. "Thank you for reminding me of all that. Can we operate on a little faith here?"

"There's blood on your left arm," Porthos pointed out, "where those bastards cut you."

"Bastard," Aramis corrected. "And yes, thank you for that reminder as well."

"You're most welcome," Porthos replied, with the utmost sincerity.

Athos tilted to make eye contact with the larger man. "Porthos…. are you certain you weren't hit on the head?"

Porthos thought about it a moment. "Pretty sure."

"That makes precisely one of us," Athos repeated Aramis' earlier words regarding their attackers.

"All good points gentlemen," Aramis cut in. "But unless either of you has a better idea…"

Athos thought a moment then looked to Porthos who shrugged. "I got nothin'."

"Then it is settled," Aramis decided. "I must try."

"Very well." Athos looked at Porthos, bending his right leg. "Bend your right leg—"

Porthos bent his right—

"No." Athos slammed his eyes shut. "You're other right—your left knee."

"Don't get mad at me." Porthos sulked as he lifted his left knee. "Not my fault you can't tell my right from your left. You certain you weren't hit in the head?" he offered back, bitterly.

Athos dropped his forehead against Aramis' back and shook his head. "This is, without question, the worst day of my life," he moaned, unaware that the added weight of his head put pressure on the marksman's already taxed arms.

The extra weight swung Aramis forward and Porthos, unprepared, lost his balance momentarily, pulling all three of them backwards. They swung like the pendulum on a church bell, both Athos and Aramis complaining loudly at being tossed about.

"Enough!" the larger man growled, using his body to stop the marksman's nearly uncontrolled swing and squeeze Athos into submission. "Quit your moaning and be about the business of getting us out of here, ey?"

"Yes." Aramis whispered painfully. "Please… we'll never get out of here if we don't get to it, and besides, the pull on my arms is growing very uncomfortable."

Porthos lifted his knee, pressing Athos' into doing the same. The right right knee this time around. "There, footholds' are in place… now, get your foot up here."

Aramis tried a few times but the last downward shift on his arms had sapped all his strength to pull upward. He sagged ever so slightly, taking advantage of the fact that Porthos' massive chest was right there, offering a place to rest.

"Having a wee nap, are we?" Porthos pushed, his voice holding a kindness to it that robbed those words of their sting. "Perhaps after we're out of here?"

Aramis nodded against the linen of his black shirt. "Yes… after," he agreed. "A nice, long, warm nap…"

Porthos looked over the mass of dark curls to Athos frowning face. "We need to wedge him between us to lift him again, then I'll give him my knee."

Athos arched a fine eyebrow. At the moment, Aramis seemed unfit to take two steps forward in the same direction, much less climb over them and onto a rope to get them free. "Fine," he eventually agreed, crouching as best as he could. "On three…"

In a repeat of the same movement they had done before, the two Musketeers moved as one, pressing Aramis in between them. Athos was forced to shift his legs back in order to keep Porthos from knocking him off his feet.

Relief proved to be an instant balm as Aramis sighed and opened his eyes. "Thank you, mes amis!"

"Much as we share a tremendous feeling of joy at your lack of suffering," Athos gritted, trying to keep Aramis up between them, "...perhaps we can get on with it before this precarious hold collapses on itself and we have to do it all over again?

"Yes, yes," Aramis looked up at the rope where it looped over the hook, trying to gage how high he'd need to climb in order to gain enough slack to secure his freedom. "Now if I could just get my foot…"

Athos felt him shift clumsily, reaching behind to place one knee over the swordsman knee. He closed his eyes to concentrate on keeping still and his balance properly seated when Aramis' weight shifted dramatically, until his other socked foot came down perfectly on the Porthos' knee. Well, more the thigh area but it was enough to distribute his weight some…

Aramis immediately lifted his other foot, looking for another foothold. Weakness from blood loss seemed to be playing a greater factor and the single point of leverage proved unworkable. "I need to get my other foot... somewhere," he strained.

Athos looked across at Porthos, who was doing much of the work in taking Aramis' weight upon himself. The man couldn't very well lift both feet and Athos was too short and in no physical position to offer better. He had, however, a brilliant idea.

"His belt buckle," the swordsman suggested. "See if you can get your other foot… more in the center."

"Yes," Aramis huffed, his eyes trained once more upward on the hook overhead, "… that should help."

Athos felt him shift yet again. He closed his eyes to concentrate on keeping his balance as Aramis bent his leg, foot moving incautiously between them, searching for the protruding object of their discussion, a singular key to their success and possible liberation. And impending mortification at the arrival of their brothers.

One could not forget the mortification part. It was important.

The foot glanced off Athos' hands where they were tied in front of him, but he made no complaint, determined not to express his own discomfort.

"Ah!" Aramis gave a triumphant hiss as he shifted his entire body upward and locked out his knees to stand straight. "Got it!"

Athos sighed at the back of Aramis' knees. The air was quite chilly, but even without the protection of a shirt, he could feel sweat tracing down lines across his back. He smiled at Aramis' enthusiasm over having achieved such a small task, which in their current situation, was not so miniscule.

Porthos' rather verbal lack of enthusiasm became a distressed whimper, followed quickly by a pained grunt. The noise held something akin to agony, and something else entirely that seemed impossible to define.

Aramis gazed down at Porthos, while Athos tried to glance in between Aramis' legs. they could see Porthos' brow wrinkled and the grim set of his mouth, rows of white teeth gritted tightly together.

"Oh," Aramis paused, trying to look further than Porthos' face. In such close quarters, all he could see where tight curls and his friend's closed lids "Am I hurting you?"

The big man let out a breath, long and careful. "In a manner of speaking," he whispered, his eyes beseeching. "The place your foot is currently squashing… not my belt buckle!"

Athos stared at him in confusion, then tried to follow the line of Aramis' leg, only to find it impossible to get the proper angle to see his foot placement. "Then where…?"

Porthos glared at the swordsman through the gap in Aramis' legs. "You really want me to spell it out for you?

"Hang on," Aramis interrupted and started to wiggle. "I'll just move my foot—"

"No!" Athos ordered and Aramis stilled. "You're too weak to balance on one foot."

"Athos…" Porthos hissed, eyes wide, tears pooling at the corners. "He really, really should try…"

Athos glared back at him as he continued but spoke to both of them. "Do that and you'll only succeed in falling again and I do not want to start this over."

Porthos stilled, whimpering again. "That's my future children you're trampling on...can you please keep your damn foot still?"

"Sorry…" Aramis offered plaintively. "Just trying to help."

"Well, it's not helping!"

"Enough, both of you!" Athos snapped. The dilemma was clearly putting some strain on their efforts to keep a level head and escape. The swordsman flexed his fingers to test his range of motion and began feeling blindly about. "Just… let me find where…"

Something large bumped his palm. Porthos squeaked and the swordsman knew immediately where he'd stopped. Not Aramis' foot.

Refusing to make eye contact with the larger man, he whispered, "Bear with me…"

"Easy for you to say…"

"I am at least in the right vicinity," Athos reminded forcefully.

Instead of answering, Porthos slammed his eyes closed and suffered his fondling in silence. Athos moved his hands up and found something of soft wool. He grabbed hold and squeezed. "Is that your foot?"

Aramis giggled but kept still, the difficulty of it reflected in his clenched jaw. "Oh, Dios… that tickles," he explained quite vexed.

Athos muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead to rest against the back of Aramis' legs, the heat of his own embarrassment ripping up and down his face. "I've got my hands under your heel," he braced, widening his stance. "Shift back, slowly and I will take your weight partially in my hands."

The deal was done, success measured in Porthos exhale of relief and Aramis quiet prayer of thanksgiving, along with Athos determination to not drop his friend and thus restarting this entire mess from the beginning.

"Gentleman," he ground out, huffing against the weight and Aramis' attempts to balance between the two of them. "I prefer to celebrate after we are free of this insanity."

Porthos was having his own difficult standing on one foot, the other still raised to offer a foothold for Aramis. "Now what, though?" He looked up at Aramis then back at Athos. "I'm fresh out of… belt buckles."

"If…" Aramis seemed nearly hesitant to offer any suggestion that might rile the bigger man. "If I could get my foot from Athos' hand onto your shoulder…"

And rightly so for Porthos glared up at Aramis. "If you miss…"

Aramis pressed his lips together. "I won't miss," he said haughtily.

"You missed my belt buckle."

"Smaller target."

Porthos glowered up at him. "Oy! Watch what you call a small!"

Aramis smirked back and opened his mouth to reply—

"I have some mobility," Athos offered quickly, eager to move this along before things got physical…er, more physical. He did not want to imagine what a fist-fight in this position would look like. A wiggling worm, perhaps. "I can help raise his foot, get him closer." Porthos glared back at him next. "Well, we can't just stand here all day, like a circus number."

"And as much as I wish I could lift myself up the rest of the way with just my arms, I lack the strength at the moment."

"Fine…" the larger musketeer relented but tossed a quick glance heavenward. "Just … please, God, don't let him miss..."

"Once I start lifting," Athos offered, looking up at the back of Aramis' legs and finding no other support point other than the round cheeks of his rear. God… the things he did for his brothers... "I'll get my shoulder under your… backside... and shove."

Aramis gave a quick nod and Athos lifted, then... shoved. Aramis' foot had made it all the way to Porthos' chest when the larger man lost his balance and his raised leg came crashing down. Aramis flailed abortively at the sudden loss of support, at which Athos overcompensated and pushed from behind, sending him forward. In the end, the marksman landed, both knees on Porthos' shoulders, the other man's face inches from his… belt buckle.

~§~

D'Artagnan came charging in through the opened door. His sword was drawn, waving in the air, threatening anyone who dared to challenge him. A threat that never materialized as he skittered to a halt, staring at the odd assortment that made up his brothers.

For some reason, one he wasn't entirely sure he wished to find out, Athos had his head pressing against Aramis' ass and the marksman, devoid of his breeches, had his knees around Porthos head. The big musketeer stood with his arms around Athos glaring at d'Artagnan.

The younger man stared hard, blinking in the faint hope that at least one dash of his lids would succeed in wiping that vision away. In the meantime, his mouth hung open. "Um…"

"Well," Porthos snapped, "you going to just stand there? Cut us loose before our captors come."

"Hmm? Oh, no," D'Artagnan closed the distance, an odd smirk on his face. "I mean, of course." He reached up with his rapier to slice the ropes on Porthos' wrists and took a step back to avoid being smacked as Porthos' arms shot up to get his hands around Aramis, securing the marksman's balance. "What I meant was," the Gascon continued as he reached up next to cut the ropes around Aramis' wrists. "There are no captors. Just me."

"You fought off all five of them?" Athos asked, incredulously.

"Never mind that…" Aramis added hopefully as he was helped down and finally stood, albeit wobbly, on the cold stone floor. "Did you find my boots?" D'Artagnan looked down and noticed how his toes curled in immediately, making the absence of his footwear all the more prevalent.

"And my doublet?" Porthos chimed in.

D'Artagnan looked questioningly at each of them before pivoting back to Athos. "No, I mean, I came back and the place was deserted," he confessed, sounding rather embarrassed. "Well except for the three of you… over there, doing…" he flopped a hand out, indicating the space where he'd seen them when he'd first entered, "whatever it was you were...doing." His brow furrowed, a pained expression on his face. "I have a headache," he murmured and began rubbing the top of his head.

"So, no…" Athos' gaze swung to the door before settling back to the younger man. "...regiment?"

"What? No," D'Artagnan gave a careful shake of his head, his dagger back in his sheath. "I didn't want to lose track of where they were taking you, so I followed them instead of returning to Paris," he continued to rub his head.

"Wha's with your head?" Porthos asked.

"Oh, I hit the door on the way in," he confessed, a red flush spreading through his cheeks. "Too low… who built this place, anyway? Dwarves?"

The three older Musketeers traded a look amongst them, a silent agreement swiftly taking place.

"Aramis," Athos called in all seriousness. "Didn't you once tell me that the mind sometimes plays tricks after receiving a serious blow?"

The marksman looked at him mutely for a moment before his eyes widened. "Oh, I believe I did. Uh huh," he nodded emphatically. "It definitely has been known to do… you know… that."

"Makes you see odd things, that does," Porthos joined in.

"So…" d'Artagnan looked at each of them, "That… peculiar sight I caught upon entering… was just my addled brains, that it?"

"Yeah," Porthos agreed. "The worse your head aches, the worse the images you see."

"Think—" Athos corrected quickly, "you see."

"Right, that's what I meant," Porthos continued. "'cause those weren't real, not really," he pressed. "So, since you didn't really see them—"

"—no point in talking about them," Aramis interrupted. "You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself with wild tales of things that never happened, now would you?"

"Oh, of course not," the young man readily agreed. "Wouldn't want to ruin any sort of… reputations."

"Good… glad that's settled," Athos looked at Porthos and Aramis, the three of them nodding.

"Me as well because," d'Artagnan took a deep breath, exhaling, "what I saw...that was… disturbing." He waived with a slight flourish to the entrance. "Now, if you three want to get out of here, we have a long walk back to Paris ahead of us."

d'Artagnan turned and strode from the room, a small smile on his face. Before he reached the door, he heard Athos whispering conspiratorially.

"We shall never speak of this again,"

END


End file.
